The Broken Glass Eulogy
by Nikoru-chan
Summary: Twentyverse.Fic complete. After the events of 'Twenty' and 'Wind and the Snow', the Batclan have some serious interpersonal sorting out to do. And some villainthumping. Because no good Batreunion is complete without villainthumping. PLEASE CC!
1. Default Chapter

The Broken Glass Eulogy

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed herein do not belong to me. They belong to DC, Warner Bros and whomever else. No profit is being made from this work of fanfiction. 

Notes: Twenty-verse. Yup, it's finally here. This is the sequel to Wind and the Snow and Twenty. It is set after the three Interlude ficlets. You do not need to have read these fics to understand the story, but it helps a great deal.  For those who can't be bothered or who require a refresher, a summary is provided (I got feedback saying this is actually useful, so here it is. Who says I'm never accommodating? **Grin**) . If you want details, go and read the fics.

SUMMARY: The story thus far

(as should be blatantly obvious, this is a spoiler alert for previous fics, specifically 'Twenty', 'Wind and the Snow', and 'Interludes'.)

**Twenty**: After Batman betrays his identity to Spoiler, Robin is kidnapped by the sinister Doctor, who uses him as a test subject. The aims of the Doctor's experiments are to erase the existing personality, and to implant a new mind, that of an assassin.  Robin is joined by the mysterious boy Kaze, whose own reprogramming is nearly finished, and with whom he develops a strong bond. Kaze escapes to seek help, but in the interim Robin's reprogramming is completed. To test his finished subject – called Vingt - the Doctor choses a very specific target, the Batman. The first assassination attempt on Batman fails, and in the second Vingt is revealed to be Robin. The Doctor is captured by the vigilantes, and orders Vingt to self-destruct, which he does, almost taking the nearly subsumed Robin/Tim personality with him. The Doctor and Kaze die in a showdown in Gotham Police Station, leaving Robin with more questions than answers, a few hazy memories, and thoughts that may or may not be entirely his own. Robin changes his identity and starts at a new school, with Alfred's assistance.

**Wind and the Snow:** at his new school, Robin becomes friends with Kaze's cousin, Yuki. Through her he is introduced to Kaze and Yukis' mentors, Kaguya and the Shishou, who begin training him as they trained Kaze. Nightwing, desperate to get his 'little brother' back, takes Robin to meet up with Young Justice at Titans Tower. In the interim, Yuki is kidnapped. Robin discovers her likely location with his usual detective ability, and after some conflict he and the rest of Young Justice set off in the Supercycle to find and rescue her. All does NOT go to plan, and Yuki dies. Secret, Nightwing, and Robin himself are left to pick up the shattered pieces.

**Interludes:** The first of these focuses on Nightwing, the second on Batgirl, with Oracle thrown in for good measure, and the third on Young Justice with emphasis on the Supercycle. The aims of these fics are to show the repairing/improving relationships that are developing between Robin and these people as his mind starts to heal and he begins to live again.

Now that the notes are probably longer than this instalment - on with the show!

            It had been a fragile life: A wisp, a flutter of existence clutching desperately at the sky of freedom. The gale that knocked it asunder began as a gentle breeze, faint gusts of air from unrelated directions that, singly, meant nothing. Combined, they meant nothing would ever be the same again. 

            The first breath began in Metropolis, the second in Gotham, a third and fourth in Japan and the Sahara. The fifth and final in the very existence that was inexorably altered by the others, the life of a boy known to some as 'Robin'. 

***********************

            Dana Drake was pleased. This wasn't an uncommon state of affairs, but was nonetheless one for which she not-unreasonably had a particular fondness. 

            It wasn't because she'd left behind her life in Gotham to follow her new husband, Jack, to Metropolis. They hadn't really planned to go, but after Jack's son had died moving away from the painful memories had seemed for the best, so she'd packed up and gone, leaving friends and family behind. But now an old friend was coming to visit.  
            //It's not like Gotham's a particularly stable place to be, anyway,//  she mused as she deftly set the table, //what with all the plagues and earthquakes and whatnot. Not to mention Tim running away from Brentwood and ending up a gang slave.// She winced away from the thought. The wound, still fresh in her own mind despite the several months that had passed, had to be worse for her husband. //Still, it'll be great to see Joyce again.// 

            A soft cry from her baby daughter in the next room diverted her attention. The dinner table could wait, there were diapers that needed changing. 

            Joyce Appleby was a stolid woman, looking older than her thirty-two years. Blond-haired and chunky, her figure amply displaying the multitude of children she'd brought into the world, she and Dana Drake were about as different as could be. 

            They were, nonetheless, best of friends. Dana had graduated from physiotherapy at the same time that Joyce had finished her dental studies. The two had roomed together at college, later going on to be flatmates before Joyce's eventual wedding had ended the amicable arrangement. 

            "Joyce! Wonderful to see you!" Dana grinned, greeting her friend at the door with a bear hug.

            "You too, Dana! You look marvellous! Parenthood is obviously agreeing with you. Where are your two kids?"

            "Two? Only one." Dana gestured her friend inside, over to the bassinet in the corner.

            "One? But you married Jack Drake." Even though she'd been unable to attend the wedding, Joyce had still sent a present and her warmest regards. //I know the man has a boy, and Dana's not the sort to make a fuss about things like 'his kid, my kid'. I wonder what's going on?//  
            "Yes, that she did," Jack wandered over to give his wife a kiss and greet Joyce.

            "Mr. Drake, nice to meet you finally. I met your son once before though. He attended the dental surgery I worked at in Gotham. Had a set of caps done over his back molars as I recall, to correct the chewing surface of the teeth."

            "Yeah, now that you mention it, he did have something done. I remember getting the bill for that." He frowned suddenly. Something was nagging at the edges of his mind, but what? "Tim's . . . Timothy's dead."  
            "Oh. I'm terribly sorry to hear that, and to bring up painful memories."

            "Thank you." A slight pause followed, while Jack hauled his mind back on track with imperceptible effort. "But tell me something about yourself. Dana talks about you so much, I can't wait to hear your side of the story."

            "Dana, silly girl, what did you tell him?"

            The initial awkward moment over, the evening ended up going very well.

            But it was still the start of the first breath. 

*********************

            It took Jack Drake two days to work out why Joyce's initial comment bothered him. It took him a further week to dig through the files he'd archived to find the one he could barely stand to look at: While it had taken him no little cajoling (and no small amount of money), he'd obtained a copy of the police report on his son's corpse. He'd gotten it to be able to read the paper through, be sure that the authorities were correct, that it was in fact Tim they'd found, and not someone else's kid. He'd been praying for a mistake, something in the report that wouldn't fit with his own mind. Anything at all.

            Slim though the report was, and despite the price he'd paid for it, he'd been unable to finish his perusal of it.

Now, though, he found he could. Searching with the eyes of desperation, he stumbled over the requisite point. //There! I knew it!//

The corpse had been identified by bone development staging, the X-rays matching Timothy's approximate age, and – more crucially - by dental records. Specifically, three fillings and one extraction, as recorded in Tim's dental records.

//Three fillings and one extraction which Tim never had.// Searching through his tax documents took another few hours, but it was a fruitful use of time. In one of the files, he found the receipt, itemised and signed, detailing exactly what dental work had been done.

//Tim had four caps put in. No fillings. Nothing else. I trust Joyce, and so does Janet. Besides, fillings don't get charged at a higher rate than caps. If anything, it's the reverse. So why would she get it wrong?//  
            The only conclusion Jack could make, disturbing though it was, was that she hadn't.

With a combination of hope, anguish and dread, Jack lifted the phone and made the hardest call he could. 

"Hello?  Bard Private Investigations? I have need of your services."

*****************

            //Normally//, Jason Bard contemplated, as he walked down a grimy Gotham street, //I'd never take a missing kid case. Too messy, too complicated, and usually all about a nasty custody battle.// But this one had been different. Oh, not the sheer, raw desperation, carefully – though not completely – hidden in his client's voice. Not even the profile, high though it could potentially be. What had piqued his interest was the fact that, as far as the GPD was concerned, the case was closed. //This kid's got nobody looking for him. An MIA written off as a KIA, even with this new evidence.// 

            The police had been uninterested in the tax documents that Drake had produced. With all the other major crimes bounding around the city, one minor episode of 'fraud' (that is, one where the fraudulent activity didn't even result in any extra income being generated) seemed more likely to be a billing error. A mistake, certainly, but nothing all that criminal. 

            The dental records, and the dental X-rays, Bard had been kindly but firmly told, matched perfectly for the Drake boy. //Sorry, but sorry. We didn't goof, you did. The boy's still dead, pity you got your hopes up.//

            Bard growled under his breath, //never mind that if a secretary is so incompetent that she mis-bills someone, she's perfectly capable of misfiling dental records as well.// Though, he had to grant, the odds of her mislabelling and misfiling a record that by sheer fluke happened to match one of the many bodies found in the burnt-out warehouse were substantially more remote. //But not impossible. Hell, the odds the bookies were offering on the Joker escaping the death penalty for killing that cop were longer, and he's still alive and kicking. Gotham's a funny old place like that.//

            Almost accidentally, he ended up at the base of a tall building. A clock tower. //Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.// He hesitated, resisting the urge to ring the doorbell. //Later, Babs. Later for sure.// In the meantime, he had a case to follow, a kid who needed his help. //Because when they've written you off, you need all the help you can get.//

**********

            Inside the aforementioned tower, 'Rapunzel' was having a rather busy time of it. All of the Bat-family were noted in her systems in such a way that any undue interest in their civilian identity would raise a flag. The more flags, or the higher priority the flags, the more of a concern it was.

            A priority one flag had just gone off for Tim Drake. Someone was asking at the police station, and the data that was being accessed made absolutely no sense.

            //An autopsy report? But I was talking to him just last night?!// Fighting down her panic, she scanned the document more closely. //What the--? The autopsy was several months ago? This is from just after he came back! What on earth is going on?!//

            Fingers flying over the keyboard, she placed a priority call. Not many people could access Bruce Wayne any hour of the day or night. Barbara Gordon was one of them, a privilege she used for the first time now. 


	2. Chapter II

The Broken Glass Eulogy

Chapter II 

Standard disclaimers apply: The characters portrayed herein do not belong to me. They are the property of DC comics, Time/Warner and whomever else. I am making no profit from this fic and ultimately am far too small a fish to bother suing. 

Batman – Bruce Wayne – paced. For the first time in many years, he'd been caught flat-footed. Totally, utterly, by surprise.

He hated it. 

So he paced, an uncharacteristic display of impatience, as he waited for his wayward protégé to make an appearance.

Somewhere, back in the part of his mind that wasn't consumed with irritation, a grudging admiration was brewing. The boy had managed to deceive him. And not just a deceit of omission, either. He'd instigated and pulled off an elaborate charade, and then successfully perpetuated it for months._He used my self-confidence against me. My faith in my own detective abilities, my certainty that I could not be deceived in such a manner was the camouflage he pulled across my eyes. _It was a sobering lesson. He'd long known that the youth who currently wore the mantle of the bird would be a force to be reckoned with when he reached adulthood, but he'd not expected that uncanny tactical excellence to be quite so evident this young. _I expected him to stuff up more, to make more mistakes while honing his mind. That was an oversight. One that may, or may not, cost me dearly._

_ _

He was broken from his train of thoughts by the subtle purr of the Redbird entering the cave. Now was the time to find out just what the price was that his hubris would entail. 

Robin stepped out of the car, watched as the man strode towards him, repressed emotion screaming through every motion. _What's going on? He's walking like Bruce, and yet his shoulders bunch like Batman. Something's happened, something big! I hope Dick's alright_. Schooling his own face into impassive attention, Robin faced his mentor.

"You sent for me." 

"I did."

An uncomfortable silence followed, neither willing to break the stalemate.As it was, sound returned to the cave with the shriek of bats, and the squeal of tires. 

Nightwing, subtle when necessary, still enjoyed the panache of a dramatic entrance. (Such an arrival was invariably made easier by a certain greatly beloved motorcycle.)

"Guys, what's up?"

Seeing his 'big brother', Robin allowed the tense alertness to seep out of his limbs somewhat. _'Big Brother'? I think of him as such? Yes, yes I do. Not in the past tense, either. I think of him as my big brother **now**_. Somehow, the thought was comforting. _After all, my subconscious is vastly more paranoid than I am._

Stepping casually towards the two, Nightwing eyed them with alert contemplation.

"I got a call from Babs. She said I'd better get over here, that she wasn't sure if you were going to kill Robin, or if I'd be better suited. Now, someone going to tell me what that little cryptic comment is all about? Tim?" 

"That's what I'd like to know." Batman turned towards the youngest of his partners, grim-faced, "But your name isn't 'Tim' anymore, is it." 

**************

Robin wasn't completely sure why he reacted the way he did. Certainly back-flipping into a defensive stance wasn't all that effective a means of dealing with the Bat's question. But even as his body flowed into the position his mind whirred, coming up with – and discarding – plan after plan in a flash.

Finally, he was left with the one option open to him. Truth. Somewhat edited, but still truth. _I owe it to them. To my mentor and my big brother. Not all of it, but at least an explanation._ Slowly he relaxed his stance, noting the alert battle-ready tension ebbing from the two men across from him._They must really have thought I'd make a run for it. And that they could stop me_. 

"No. My name isn't really 'Tim' anymore. That name is for a boy who died.I think parts of him, anyway. Maybe he's still alive somewhere inside, but I don't know. I wanted time to find out." 

"Time to. . .?! But why not tell me? What about your father? Do you have any idea what it's like to lose your family, or have you forgotten that, too?" Stricken, Robin flinched away from Bruce's words. _I needed time to think! I needed space!_ But the Bat's onslaught continued relentlessly.

"Dammit, Robin, how could you? To your father, to me?!" Breathing hard, Batman visibly reined himself in. Nightwing, on the other hand, did not.

"No. No! I can't believe this was all your idea! Just what did the Doctor do to you that could make you pull something like this?! What part of that monster's abomination is still left behind in you!?" 

Something inside Robin snapped at that, the last vestiges of Vingt's unquestioning loyalty burning themselves out into a melding with all of TimRobin's remaining anguish. 

"At least the Doctor was honest with me!" 

Silence. Total and utter, unbroken by even the rustle of batwings. 

Then, in a dangerously civil tone, Batman spoke. "Explain."

There was, Robin saw, no hope for it. No partial truth, finessed into acceptability would now suffice. The Bat would see. The Bat would know. _Maybe the Bat deserves to hear it, anyway. Or maybe that will mean an end to 'Robin'. _With a deep breath, Robin lifted his face to meet his mentor's eyes. _Either way, I have to._

_ _

"The Doctor wanted a perfect, pet assassin. A tool. Nothing more, nothing less than a useful tool. Yet he never told me otherwise. That was his honesty." 

"Just what are you saying?" Nightwing spoke, ever ready to leap to his foster father's defence at any slur, implied or open. 

"When I first became Robin, Batman told me I was more than just a sidekick. Batman and Robin – the perfect team, partners." He paused, emphasising the word, "Partners. I believed him. Heart and soul I believed him, wanted to live up to that, and I think I made a better vigilante because of it." Both Nightwing and Batman were still, years of training allowing them to give him room to finish, to reach the inevitable conclusion, before exploding. Robin continued.

"But what sort of partnership is it when the senior member gives away the identity of his offsider without even asking? After drilling on the importance of keeping secrets?" Robin answered his own question. "It's not a partnership at all. That's what I realised at that moment when Steph – Spoiler – called me 'Tim' on the roof of Brentwood. That's one of the few things from Before that I still remember with total, utter clarity. Not a partnership. At that instant I knew I was never a partner. I was a tool, one more weapon in the crusade against crime. But that was okay." He drew a shaky breath, "It's just that now I was a weapon whose personhood – whose life outside of being a tool – obviously didn't matter."

Robin turned beseechingly to Batman, begging, demanding truth himself now, "was I really that inadequate an instrument that I was so easily dispensed with? When did I become so useless as to be so utterly expendable? What was it that I messed up so badly that the tool I was became disposable? Please . . .I need to know. . ." 

"That – that's what this is all about?" Nightwing looked shaken to his core, "oh, little brother, how long has this been eating at you? He does things like that, it's not you. It wasn't your fault - " 

Seeing Batman himself was unwilling or unable to give an immediate answer, Robin visibly pulled himself back under iron control, his voice shifting to inflectionless atonality. 

"When I came back, I had a debt to repay. I owed it to Kaze, I'd promised him I'd survive as myself, in any way that I could. He died and I lived and I owed it to him. But the only way to see how much of 'myself' there still was, was to give it a chance to heal. I wanted – needed – very badly for it to work for Kaze's sake, so I gave myself a new identity. One that you didn't know.One that you couldn't take away."

"You know I could find out this new identity within a few hours. Oracle in less than that." Deep and gravely, it was not a question. 

"I know. But I'm asking you not to. I'm honoured and proud to be your tool, 'Robin', but I want a chance to be more than a tool. The Doctor determined my world would revolve around my function, around being 'Unit Twenty'. For him I existed only as a weapon. For Kaze I would exist as a more. I would exist as a person. For him, and perhaps, I think, for myself." A sense of wonder followed that last statement, as Robin marvelled at how far he'd come, how much he'd healed already. _For myself? Yes. For me. For me!_

The pause in conversation stretched out into what seemed an eternity, Batman's face remaining impassive as he stared at his protégé. Finally, he spoke.

"I will know your identity. For your safety and for that of everybody else, that information is vital."

Robin's shoulders sagged slightly, though his voice remained expressionless. "Acknowledged. My current name is -" Before he could go on, Batman held up a hand, stalling him. 

"No. Don't tell me. Have the information somewhere where I can access it in an emergency. Otherwise, your name is your own. You earned it, you keep it." 

This time, Robin could not keep the surprise from his voice, nor the newly rediscovered respect. "A-acknowledged."

"One day, Robin, when I've earned your trust again. Then you can tell me."

"Acknowledged!"

"But you'll still have to deal with your father. No more running away from it." Batman's lips tightened. "You have a family, treasure it. Work out how to get back and see him. I'll help you any way I can. He deserves it, and so do you."

"Yes," Robin said, thinking of Kaguya and the Shishou, caring though presently absent, of Kaze and Yuki, both dead but still watching over him, and of Nightwing, Batman and Batgirl, alive and deeply bonded. "Yes, I do have family."  
  



	3. Chapter III

The Broken Glass Eulogy

Part III

Standard disclaimers apply: The characters portrayed herein do not belong to me. They are the property of DC comics, Time/Warner and whomever else. I am making no profit from this fic and ultimately am far too small a fish to bother suing. 

            Any further discourse was interrupted by the shrill whine of an alarm from the Crays: determined never to be unavailable, Batman had ensured that the computer was notified whenever the Batsignal atop Gotham Central police station was lit. That way even if he was not prowling the rooftops or in his top floor office, Batman would know of the city's need.

            With seamless practice, Batman and Robin pelted for the Batmobile, all differences forgotten, a team once more. Tearing out of the cave with Nightwing hot on their heels, they headed for downtown Gotham.   
            Unlike a certain memorable night weeks earlier, this time no immediate carnage was apparent when the trio melted out of the shadows to confer with Commissioner Gordon. At least, no carnage within the domain of the police building. The photos in the file Gordon handed to Batman were more than gory enough to make up for it. 

            "At first we thought it was a hit. Just a simple hit. Well-known but comparatively clean mob family, sitting around for a cosy dinner in the kitchen, that sort of thing. Then the parents, who we'd thought were these two," Gordon indicated the largest two of the mutilated corpses, neither of which were sufficiently intact to allow any assessment of gender, "suddenly turned up alive and well, demanding their kids back." He sighed. 

            "Seems that their two children had been taken when sharing a meal with the housekeeper and her family, while the parents were out of town on 'business'." He gestured at the photos, "that's what's left of the staff."

            Lighting a pipe, he continued, "The kidnap was well planned. We've finished DNA testing, and the two smaller corpses are definitely the housekeeper's kids. The kidnapper knew exactly who to cut down, and who to take alive. No ransom demands have been made. The parents think, and we're inclined to agree, that this is an example-making exercise. Of course," Gordon paused, troubled, "The fact that they've made no demands doesn't bode well for us getting those children out of this 'example' alive. 

            "After all, to these guys, some examples serve better as corpses."

            Handing the children's file to Nightwing, who quietly began perusing it, Batman turned back to Gordon. "Otherwise?"

            "Not much. For what it's worth, the parents deny having crossed anybody of late. Or knowing of any deals going down."

            Behind him, Nightwing inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing at something within the file. Uniquely tuned to his former protégé's shifts and moods, Batman's lips thinned. 

"All we know is these kids, if they're still alive, are running very short on time."

Gordon looked up from lighting his pipe, knowing as he did so that he would be alone on the rooftop. Exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the night, he addressed his last comments to the few pitiful stars visible through the layers of smog and neon. "Good luck. Those children will need it." 

Several rooftops over, both Batman and Robin turned towards Nightwing.

            "Talk," the Dark Knight demanded.

            "Maria and Antonio Rossi go to school in Little Italy. Tony's teacher is one Helena Bertinelli. And since the police have already been by the school to take statements-"

            "Huntress is almost certainly on the case." Almost imperceptibly, Batman's frown deepened. "This changes nothing. Nightwing, go to Little Italy. Oracle –"

             _"Already on it, Boss."_

            "Robin." Here Batman paused, careful – though rapid – consideration going into his next 'assignment'. "Robin, stay in the city. You and Batgirl will split patrol for tonight."

            "Acknowledged." If Robin felt the burden of the sudden addition of responsibility, or irritation at being left out of the core of the case, neither voice nor body betrayed it.   
            Mere seconds later, the roof was again home only to gargoyles and pigeons, it's temporary human occupants departed. 

            As directed, Robin and Batgirl split the city patrol. On the basis of a coin flip, Robin took the north end, and Batgirl the wharfs, each heading off without a word spoken. Verbally anyway. Since his discovery of how to speak 'body language', Robin had worked hard at increasing his 'fluency', a practice Batgirl supported while in costume. Out of their 'working clothes', the pair practiced equally hard at improving Cassandra's spoken language. //Because family is like that. Sharing, giving and taking, helping each other.// The thought always made Robin smile, distancing him further from the icy self-containment of his Vingt persona. 

The coin flip was chance. Sheer fluke. A random event that simply happened to ensure Robin was perfectly situated in the wrong place at the wrong time. Naturally, he rose to the challenge. 

The rooftop battle was in the process of being lost when he arrived on the scene, his patrol pattern broken by the flickers of light he'd spotted to the side, flashes that long familiarity allowed him to identify as muzzle flares. Whatever was going on, it involved at least one small army. 

Huntress, bleeding from a number of gashes, was putting up a determined, though increasingly futile resistance. Opposing her were a number of dime-a-dozen thugs (apparently with a discount on bullets) who were cheerfully peppering the surrounds with their shrapnel. They were shooting at both Huntress and the mobsters behind her, goons that were in the process of enthusiastically, if not accurately, returning fire. As a number of prone bodies indicated, the two gangs of small-fry thugs were perfectly capable of sorting themselves out (or at least killing each other off) and really weren't the source of much of the purple-clad vigilante's difficulty.

The KGBeast, however, was. 

As the Russian super-assassin lumbered towards the staggering Huntress, Robin swooped to the rescue, the pieces abruptly coming together. //Russian muscle. This whole situation and the Rossi case, it isn't Mob infighting at all! This is a takeover! The Russian mob is moving in on the Sicilians.// Above the cacophony of the gunfight, Robin's trained ears could pick out the keening wail of a child, confirming his suspicions. //Looks like the cops were wrong about the parents being 'comparatively clean'. They're in on something, some deal, that little Odessa wants. And whatever it is, it's valuable enough to keep at least one of these kids alive, example or no.//

Just then Huntress slipped on a patch of slime and went down, to the mocking laughter of the Beast.

"Now I am to be killing you!" He chortled. 

The flying kick to the side of his neck staggered him, dropping him to his knees. Robin, compensating for his comparatively light weight with a combination of jump-line assisted velocity and sheer technical virtuosity, had landed the blow impeccably with the sole of his foot. The move fooled no one; had he used the lateral edge, the pressure fed into the smaller surface area would have ended the Russian's life without fanfare. 

As it was, it only served to enrage the metahuman. 

"You are the Robin! You are alive?! I am fixing that!" A roar, and he charged the youth. 

Robin moved with deceptive rapidity, the bo staff leaping into his hands and, with a flick of his wrist, telescoping out into the Beast's face. His aim was flawless; the Russian's crosshair eyepiece shattered with the impact. Deftly, he sidestepped the KGBeast's swinging downstroke, pirouetting out of range. 

Swiping the fragments of glass from his face, the Beast's eyes narrowed. This boy was no longer the nuisance he had been so long ago, when the meta's Russian masters had ordered him to kidnap the master printer. The child was primed, matured, and much more competent with his chosen weaponry. Mere brute force and presence would no longer serve to intimidate him, would be a waste of effort. Abruptly, the Beast switched tactics. 

He moved suddenly, his large frame shifting with surprising grace, unheard over the raucous chatter of the machine guns that were still sporadically being fired off around the battling duo. 

He did not attack Robin. Sensing that he was possibly outclassed, the Beast put his pride on the backburner and concentrated on winning. By any means possible. 

Instead, he reached for the still-reeling Huntress, bloodshed on his mind, and a titanium and ceramic blade on his wrist. Robin sensed the sudden change of tactics as Huntress, footing regained, looked up to see the dagger streaking towards her. Nowhere to dodge, and Robin almost too late.

Almost. 

Seemingly impossibly, the bo staff slithered in front of Huntress' face, scant inches from her nose. With a shower of sparks, the KGBeast's blade slammed into the other weapon. 

The staff came off second-best, sheared neatly into two unequal parts. Robin counted it a fair cost though; the extra half-second the staff had bought had allowed Huntress to fling herself to the side, sustaining merely a gash to her shoulder rather than a split skull. Certain that with the ruining of the weapon, he'd gained a heady psychological advantage, the KGBeast paused his attack to bellow with laughter.

"Now, little pest! Now you are mine!" 

Ignoring his gleeful opponent, Robin stepped lightly towards the second length of staff, the longer piece still clutched in his hand. Picking it up, he inspected it expressionlessly. As the Beast continued to gloat, he carefully shifted the two pieces, one in each hand, finding their weights and balances. 

"My thanks," Robin said, in a quiet tone, one that nonetheless pierced the Russian's humour. The Beast had only time to realise that something was wrong, very wrong, that his enemy was not in the least intimidated or dismayed, before Robin spoke again.  "These are much more convenient." 

Desperate to regain the upper hand he'd never really held, the metahuman charged. Robin's stance shifted into an easy lateral pose, the two fragments held at his left waist. As the larger man pounded into range, he lashed out with the longer of the two halves, a slicing arc that the Beast blocked easily with his forearm. Unfortunately, that left the soft underside of the blocking arm vulnerable to the rapid second strike that Robin followed with, the shorter staff fragment ramming into rib with a wet smack, bone crunching with the impact. 

Winded and doubling over, the Beast took a fatal step backwards, disengaging from both staffs, which allowed Robin to land a third blow with pinpoint accuracy on the Russian's temple, and another to his shoulder. As the giant of a meta sagged to his knees, a final double strike - this time with both staffs to the vulnerable carotid arteries on either side of the Beast's neck – flew down mercilessly. 

It was a pummelling that could well have killed a normal human, and as it was it tore ragged holes in the Russian's grip on consciousness. Blackness closing in, the Beast's primitive instinct was to buy himself some time. His intellect told him how to go about it. Half crawling, half sliding, he moved towards a non-descript crate. 

Aware of his opponent's intention, Robin guessed the meaning behind his actions a second too late. With a grunt, the Beast shoved the packing box off the edge of the roof. A long scream sounded; the lid had come off, and a child had fallen out from within the crate. //The Rossi kids!// 

He'd barely finished the thought when his body, reacting on instinct, flew into action. Dashing the few short steps to the edge of the roof, he flung himself off the side of the building, arrowing his fall towards the girl plummeting down even as he fired a jumpline towards her.

The line, anchored by a bat-grapple, wrapped neatly around her waist, three times over. 

"Hold on!" He shouted. The girl needed no telling twice; pudgy fingers tangled themselves around the rope, the thin decel cord a lifeline. A graceful mid-air twist, and Robin threw a second cable – his last spare – up.  It bounced off a wall, a chimney. . . and then latched around a length of piping on a rooftop some three storeys down from the site of the initial combat.  Below him the first decel performed the function it was named for, terminating the child's unplanned tumble with little more than a firm tug. 

Robin's relief, though heartfelt, was short lived as both he and the girl slowed to a gentle stop. Above him, he knew, the KGBeast would be recovering, and fast. Frowning slightly, Robin attached the lower rope – the one from which the Rossi girl hung – to his belt, the miniature winder there churning away, reeling in the cable rapidly.  Looking up, his next problem became apparent more quickly than he'd anticipated. 

Silhouetted against the smoggy darkness, the Beast roared, and then vanished as he leapt down to the lower rooftop. Robin's jaw tightened. He knew what the KGB's former agent was after, and while the metahuman might take the three-story leap with little notice, the further twelve story fall in store for the vigilante and the child he'd just saved would not produce the same effect. A plan crystallised, and Robin, the girl now firmly gripping him around the waist, began a pendulous swing on his jumpline.

He'd almost achieved the velocity and angle he needed to compensate for the extra weight when powerful metahuman fingers, searching in the dark for the thin line of cable, found their target.  

Unlike the pudgy digits that had grasped the cable moments before and meters below, these fingers were huge bundles of muscle and power. They twined around the cord, lifting it up with a sharp jerk, almost displacing the two figures hanging from it below. The Beast grinned as he twisted the line, sending the two spinning out into space, well away from any supporting walls and interrupting the ordered arc Robin had been swinging. The suddenly spider-thin decel line narrowed to a lifeline, a faint thread between life and a plummeting death some twelve stories below. 

Hanging on for dear life, Robin's lips tightened into a harsh line. His eyes narrowed to icy chips, but not with anger; frigid calculation and assessment of his resources poured through his mind as the parts of him that were Vingt – or so he assumed - reasserted themselves. 

He could easily save himself, if he dropped the girl. 

Not an option. //And I don't want Batman ever to know I thought of that.// There was a sense of déjà vu to that sentiment, but Robin was disinclined to pummel his recalcitrant memory. He had other, more acute, priorities to see to first. Like keeping both rescuer and rescuee alive. 

But he'd used his last line to stop their previous fall – the other cable, cinched into his belt winch, would take too long to reload into the line-caster, even if he'd had the hand to spare. If the KGBeast would just stay true to form and gloat a little . . .

As it was, it was the inherent tensile strength of the decel cord rather than the glee of the metahuman that gave Robin his precious extra seconds. Muscles bulging, the Beast's first attempt to snap the line merely resulted in torn fingers. Robin took the opportunity to start swinging again.

"We won't make it!" The girl was gibbering, and Robin knew she was right; the time it would take to swing a high enough arc to land themselves on the rooftop to the left as he'd originally planned would be vastly longer than that taken by the Beast to drop them. So close and yet so far.

On the right, a wall of plate glass glistened in the halogen and smog, sheer for many stories straight. //Perfect.//

The Beast snapped the rope in the middle of their backward swing, the girl screaming as they fell against the glass. Naturally enough, the skyscraper-quality panes did not shatter. As providence would have it, (and to Robin's eternal gratitude) the girl took this opportunity to faint. 

He, on the other hand, took the opportunity to shift the girl's weight up and over his shoulder, and to jam the edge of his boot against the glass. Nearly perpendicular in both line and centre of gravity, he skidded down the edge of the sky-scrapper, the acrid stench of his disintegrating synthetic sole keeping him company as he slowed their descent . . . as much as he could. . . still too fast. . . reload the cable. . . caster's too slow . . . get enough of the other cable sorted to toss it by hand. . . 

The elegantly shaped concrete balustrade was a godsend. 

A flick of his wrist, and the fistful of broken cord looped up and around the architectural feature. Improperly weighted, it slipped, gripped, slipped again . . . and wedged into a crevice. //Too fast, and the wrong angle! The decel won't save us!//

His assessment was correct. The decel was not in the end what saved them. His foot, planted firmly against the glass with the bunching strength of his legs behind it gave him enough leverage to force himself away from the glass, to snap up the extra distance with the remnants of the decel line before that too gave way, and to angle himself in a semi-controlled fall towards a central fountain. //Protect the girl!// It was too late to worry about whether the fountain would be deep enough. 

They landed with a tremendous splash into the waist-deep fountain, the force enough to wind Robin utterly, loosen his grip on the figure in his arms. Hacking and spluttering, he dragged himself and the now-awake and struggling child to the edge of the fountain. Pushing the girl out, he lay there with his arms over the edge of the water feature, too spent to move. 

When he could breathe again, he directed his attention to the shivering girl in front of him. 

"You okay?"

Teeth chattering, she nodded. Robin sighed, a mixture of relief and concern; obviously shock was setting in. Figuring that despite their recent soaking, the heating elements in his cape should still be working, he slung off the garment, wrapping it around her shoulders as he attended to re-loading his line-caster. //A bit of levity. Keep her shock at bay.//

 "Well then, I guess we get full marks for success, even if it's zero points for style." He was rewarded with a tremulous smile. //Good. She really is okay. Now to figure out what to do about the metahuman.// 

The solution to both was presented neatly as the GCPD squad cars rolled up to the fountain, spilling cops and relieved parents into the courtyard. Carefully, Robin scooped up the child, drifting towards the policemen. The girl, seeing her parents, gave a glad cry, wriggling from Robin's grasp and half-ran, half-staggered to them, Robin's cloak slipping from around her shoulders. As soon as she was clear, Robin bent to pick up the discarded article. He, too, had people to meet up with, a meta to take down.

And (as the pointed guns and loud demands of the police to 'freeze' drowned out the rescued child's protestations of his innocence and general all-round 'cool-factor') an exit to make. Deceptively slowly, he raised his hands, noticing the eyes of a number of the policemen widen at this. But his hands didn't stop at head-height – they continued upwards, long fingers triggering the compact line caster hidden in one hand. Propelled by a force greater than that of a hand-thrown line, the decel cord soared unseen into the dark sky, wrapping around a gargoyle some several stories higher.

As the police shouted futilely below him, Robin followed the line up, the compact recoil pulling him efficiently up and out of range. 

//Now, if those nice policemen would just be so kind as to hang around while I deal with the KGBeast, they can spare me the trip downtown to deliver him.// His own bravado, tempered with levity, made him grin, though the expression was harshened by narrowed eyes holding a determined glint. 

The caster usually slowed towards the end of its rewind, so as to avoid slamming its load into the wall or parapet it was attached to.  Robin, having watched Nightwing a number of times, had figured out a way to counter-act this; three taps on the trigger of the caster in quick succession, and the line continued retracting at high speed. A fourth tap, and it stopped dead, inertia and acrobatic skill giving Robin the means to flip himself up and over the edge of the roof, rolling across the tiles and landing in a defensive crouch just in time to see the KGBeast make a run for the fire-exit of the next building over. Naturally enough, he gave chase immediately.

To his surprise, the Beast went upwards, rather than down, climbing towards the site of their original confrontation. //So there's still something valuable on the roof. With a bit of luck, it's the other Rossi kid.//  Hope made him redouble his efforts, and he reached the rooftop scant seconds behind his prey. Vaulting over the ledge, he was just in time to dodge to one side as the meta staggered backwards, a crossbow quarrel lodged in his shoulder. It appeared Huntress had recovered somewhat. 

But the Beast was dangerously close to the edge, and in his pain hadn't realised it. //Fifteen stories is a big fall, even for this guy!// The backs of the meta's calves met the ledge, he tripped and seemed certain to fall . . . Robin grabbed and, using the handrail of the fire escape like the handles of a gymnastic horse, swung his legs around, flowing over open space for a tantalising instant, before kicking the giant of a man firmly in the back of the head. While he was much lighter than the other, the placing and force of the blow with his momentum behind it shifted the Beast's centre of gravity. It also had the useful side effect of rendering the larger man unconscious.

Out cold, the assassin fell forwards onto the rooftop, Robin landing lightly next to him. 

"I came as soon as Oracle heard the police broadcast," Nightwing's voice drifted down, "but it looks as though I didn't need to. Nice job." Turning, Robin saw the other vigilante land gracefully on the roof.  

"I still haven't found the other kid. The girl was in one of these boxes." Robin said by way of greeting, pulling out a set of bat-ties and securing the still unconscious meta. 

"Actually," Nightwing murmured, drifting off to inspect the other crates, "I meant the save. Keeping an oaf the size of that creep from falling's a pretty impressive effort." 

Behind him, a shaky Huntress was loading another quarrel into her crossbow, blackness clawing at the edges of her vision, as she muttered prayers to a god she had long since decided cared nothing that Nightwing would find Tony, and soon. 

Using the edge of a batarang on what crates were sealed, Robin methodically searched the cargo on the rooftop. //Funny place to store stuff. I wonder what the deal we interrupted was anyway.// A box of white powder wrapped into plastic bags answered his question. //Lots of heroin, but where's the other kid?//  Frowning, he kept looking. The police would be arriving soon, the fitter of them already half way up the fire escape, and all three of them needed to be absent from the roof by the time the first of them pulled themselves onto the roof. 

_"Oracle here,"_ The slightly distorted voice was a welcome buzz in his ear. _"Batman's found Tony Rossi. He's getting him to the Police as we speak." //Good,// Robin sighed internally. //Time to get out of here.// He turned towards Huntress, thinking to check whether she could use a jumpline. //The hit she took to the shoulder was pretty superficial, and she's still standing. Besides, if something had been really wrong Big Brother would have . . .// His thoughts trailed off as he contemplated the loaded crossbow pointed directly at him. _

There were, he knew, a very large number of ways he could deal with the situation. Disarming Huntress with varying degrees of prejudice and simply jumping off the roof were but two of the myriad that occurred to him. A split second later, and he'd decided on his preferred approach.

"Pointing that at the wrong person, aren't you?" He asked mildly, deliberately being as old TimRobin-like as he could manage. "After all, I'm one of the good guys." 

"Like Hell you are!" She snarled, the crosshairs never wavering from his face. To one side, Nightwing look torn between disbelief at her actions, and surprise at Robin's response (or lack thereof). "You're him! All this time, I thought you were just some brat, but you're him!"

"Eh?" 

"Don't try and deny it! I saw those moves! I saw what they did to the meta!"

"What of it?" Robin was genuinely confused. Maybe Huntress had been worse hurt than he'd thought. 

"So, tell me, after all this time, am I next? Did you show me to taunt me?" She was shaking now, adrenalin, pain and fury rocking her body though her hand remained dead steady. "Those blows, the same as carved into my cousin's body! That decapitation, the same as was used to butcher my uncle! You're him!"

Looking rapidly from one to the other, Nightwing raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Huntress, look, you're obviously mistaken, this is Rob-"

"No! He's the one the Yakuza sent to 'get their message across'! The one who killed my cousin Asaro and uncle Nicola as they rotted in their 'impenetrable' prison cells in Sicily! The one who showed that nobody was untouchable, nowhere was safe, and that the Sicilian mafia had better tread carefully or face the same fate! I was sent to finishing school Switzerland because of you! Sent away from Sicily, to be 'safe'! But when the Crimson is after you, death is certain!"

Robin stood silent in the face of her accusations, too surprised to move.  //The. . . Crimson? What the?//

"Huntress, listen to yourself." It was Nightwing, cool-headed as ever, who intervened. "You just said it – sent to finishing school. That was years ago, and Robin's only a kid. How could it have been he who killed your family?"

That actually seemed to get through to her.  At least, Robin thought it was Nightwing. At any rate, she stopped yelling, though her weapon did not waver. Robin opted not to move. 

"I heard the assassin had vanished for a while." She said almost to herself, before focussing on Robin again. "Could it be he was finding and training a student? Is that what you've become, Robin? Death's apprentice?" 

Her words rocked him to his very core. "Huntress, I –"  
            "Is he still alive? The one who taught you? Or are you the new Crimson?" 

Nightwing saw the effect the accusation was having on Robin. With every word he was drawing into himself, shrinking behind the icy façade he'd so cautiously been edging out from these last weeks to months. //She's undoing all the self-healing he's been doing! But not if I can help it!//

"Robin! Huntress! Time to go, unless you want a discussion with our friends in blue." He was gratified to see Robin obediently, albeit mechanically pull out his linecaster.

 As the two of them stepped to edge, Robin not taking his eyes off the purple-clad vigilante who was tracking his every move, he answered her.

"I'm not Crimson, Huntress. I'm nobody's pet assassin," he said with quiet force and utter conviction. "The one who instilled those techniques in me. . . is no longer in this world." 

He leapt then, the jumpline arcing away from his hand. Nightwing followed him and they left Huntress on the roof, her mind full and her own escape under question. 

********************

            Robin said nothing more to Nightwing for the uneventful rest of their patrol. Nor did he speak to Batman beyond giving a report of his fight with the KGBeast. When he at last crawled into the bed in the corner of the cave he'd been given, it was with a heavy heart. 

            Nightwing tried to cheer him, sitting on a chair next to him

            "It's not your fault," he'd said. "The Doctor wanted an assassin, so he programmed it into you. But look – you used the techniques non-lethally, and you even saved the Beast from a fall! See? You were right, when you told Huntress you were nobody's assassin."  

            Robin grunted non-committally.

            _"I agree," Bab's voice, worried yet determinedly cheerful, came from the console near the Crays. __"And so does Batman. The Doctor failed when he tried to make you a murderer, and this just proves it – you don't kill with your skill, and you can help people. I'll arrange for you and Batgirl to have a chat over at my place tomorrow. She understands perhaps the best of all of us. Now get some rest. It'll all look better in the morning."  
            Turning his face to the wall, Robin didn't deign to reply. A few moments later, and he sensed more than heard Nightwing leave. _

            //It won't look better in the morning, Oracle. It can't. Because the one who taught me those 'Crimson' moves wasn't the Doctor. 

            //Babs, those killing techniques, the assassination blows . . . I learned them from Shishou!//

End part III. Part IV coming soon. 


	4. Chapter IV

Notes: Ok guys. Here it is; the next part of TBGE. It is not how I originally wrote it. Not for the first time, this story has fallen victim to a melted hard drive. In this instance, one that decided to take out ten pages of un-posted story without even having the courtesy of doing it with any sort of panache that might have provided at least a little entertainment in the process. That this next portion has been painstakingly (and inaccurately) recreated from what was lost is due to the encouragement of a number of people, especially Lady Moon, without whose cheerful sympathy, occasional commiseration, and impeccably timed feedback on the earlier parts of this fanfic, chances are I would have decided that this time round, I'd not bother to resurrect the story.  

This rehash marks a change in how the fic will be written, however. Now, rather than waiting for an opportune story break (read: cliff-hanger) before posting a section, I will post any given portion as soon as it's written. This may make for complicated or unsatisfying reading, for which I give my apologies in advance. 

Van had not expected sleep to come easily for what little remained of the night. Instead, he had anticipated lying awake for many hours - despite the toll of the evening's physical activities - to contemplate the impact of its revelations. Thus it was with some surprise that Van found himself awakening bleary-eyed to the perpetual twilight of the Batcave. Looking at the complicated timepiece ('clock' was too simple a term for the device) mounted on a convenient stalactite, he realized it was shortly before dawn. He'd managed a good two and half hours sleep. //All the better to prepare me for what's to come,// he thought, lips tightening into a determined line.//I've a lot of questions to ask. And a lot of thinking before I even know what all of those questions will be.//

With a silent grace more reminiscent of a predatory cat than the sweet-voiced bird his alter-ego was named for, Van stealthily dressed, preparatory to leaving the cave. Finding the tracer Dick had thoughtfully stuck to the inner tongue of one of his shoes, he removed it with a practiced flick of the wrist. //Sometimes, Big Brother,// he contemplated, //a person just needs a little privacy. A little time and space in which to think.// With an unconscious shrug, he turned thought to deed, slipping past the cave's defenses with the absent-minded ease of gross familiarity. 

The early morning light of sunrise in Gotham saw Van wending his way through the skyscrapers downtown. Freshly rebuilt after the ravages of pestilence and earthquake, the buildings were humbler, lower to the ground than their predecessors, and they retained a sharp-edged newness that had yet to mellow into to comfortable power of age that the older architecture had possessed. A burst of nostalgia for the toppled gargoyles that had been responsible for so much of the city's previous atmosphere was interrupted by the sight of a sign being raised on one of the new buildings. //Drake Industries is returning to Gotham?! Does this mean Jack Drake will be here as well?// Van frowned. That was unexpected. His last intelligence had placed the man and his new family firmly in Metropolis, in the process of consolidating his holdings there. Unexpected, but possibly, he contemplated moodily, to his advantage. //Batman told me to reunite with my family, but how? After the deception I crafted so carefully fooled even Batman for months, how do I then turn that into a mistake, an error of reporting? The fact that Batman only found out after a private investigator ran a search on me implies that someone was at least suspicious about the scenario well before then. Barbara told me Jack Drake hired Bard, so perhaps the real question is not how to tell him I'm still alive, but how to dovetail a new fiction in with what he already knows – or thinks he knows.// He sighed. It was another thing to contemplate, to factor in to his plans. 

In truth – and here Van saw the wisdom of ruthless self-examination – Van cared less about his birth father than his mentors. That Kaguya and the Shishou had failed to return from their sojourns in their respective home worlds deeply troubled the youth. //They would not abandon me,// he knew with unshakable faith. //They would never, ever just pack up and leave.// But he also knew that they'd not returned to the human plane. Something inside him, an intuition as much as a logical thought, told him he'd know if they had. //Maybe it's because I carried the Hagoromo. Maybe it's something else. I just know that I'd know if they were back and they're not.// Pausing outside the Mireba building to collect his thoughts, Van decided to enter the official way. While sneaking in had its advantages – not the least of which was the practice value – at this moment, time and thought seemed of the essence. //And with Kaguya and the Shishou not in the building, I don't particularly want to give anyone else inside that I happen to meet and need to talk to a heads-up about some of my other training.//

//No, Shishou would not abandon me, but I still have so many questions to ask.// The elevator ride seemed to take forever, despite the whisper-quiet rapidity that he knew in reality was whisking him up to the dojo complex. //Questions about what happens now, about whether they even know yet that Yuki is dead, about my studies. . . questions about The Crimson. So very many questions about The Crimson.// He did not for one instant doubt his master, or his master's nobility. He'd grown too close to his not-quite-human mentor for that, however his mind nonetheless churned out scenarios and possibilities at high speed. But his self examination, though ruthless and substantially more thorough than most people would have managed, still belittled one small fact: He wanted to see his master and the lady again. His makeshift family had become very important, and he missed them terribly. Missed the chance to mourn with those who understood just how special Yuki had been. The wound still gaped, and while Dick's words had provided a soft balm, he had only to remember Yuki's sunny grin to rip the scab off the top of his grief. //So many questions, so many things to tell you. . .//

Stepping out of the elevator, the dojo seemed heartbreakingly, echoingly empty. Around him, memories of the pleasant, homey moments he'd grown to treasure in the simple rooms mocked him. Alone. So very alone. //Shishou, where are you?//

It was with some surprise that his keen eyes detected movement in the smaller, second room of the Dojo. Familiar with Kaguya's grace and the Shishou's powerful fluidity, Van knew immediately that the fluttering of a sleeve he'd spied, though elegant, could belong to neither of these. In a relaxed state of battle readiness, he ghosted towards the room, feet skimming the nightingale floor between the two sections of the complex with surety and –more importantly - silence. //An intruder? Here?// Thoughts of the future, his questions, the past all dissipated, leaving only the pointed alertness of the Now. //Unlikely, unless . . .//

His surmise was correct. Seated in the smaller of the rooms in front of a low burner on which rested an elegant tetsubin was a woman. As she turned to face him, Van felt a frisson of shock. Yuki's face stared up at him from beneath a curtain of inky black hair. 


	5. Chapter V

The Broken Glass Eulogy

By Nchan

See disclaimer at start of story.

As rapidly as the hope and confusion rose, it dissipated: Yuki's face indeed, but not the cheerful, open countenance of the girl Van had come to call friend. This face, though still elegant in shape with hauntingly expressive almond eyes, was older. Seamed, lined by the experiences both pleasant and difficult that make up the phenomenon known as 'life', it was a much older visage that stared at him with grief-stricken composure. 

"Mireba-san," he breathed, as hope cleared and identification came easily. Yuki's mother. Van had met her once before, on the occasion of Yuki's funeral. She had been kind then, had given him the locket that now lay warm against his skin. Van winced away from the memory. Kind, and discreet. //But still leaving me with the question of how much she knows.// His mind, grateful for the distraction, latched onto the idea. //It's certain she knows I was training with Yuki, and the locket implies she's aware of at least some connection with Kaze. Or that whoever asked her to give it to me is, at any rate.// The possibilities inundated him.

With simple elegance, she invited him to join her, the tea ceremony she served providing precious minutes while Van's mind raced, formulating and discarding plans, the bitter liquid an accompaniment in simplicity to the complexity of his thoughts. Carefully, he avoided the issue of how she'd known to bring two bowls. //Am I that predictable or was she expecting someone else? A problem for later. At any rate, I suspect a confrontation is imminent.//

"You are troubled," she observed at length. "How may I help?" 

Van blinked, confused. Of all the possible outcomes of this chance meeting, that had not been one he'd expected. "I do not understand, Mireba-san. And I have no right to ask help from you. I failed you, and I failed your daughter." //And earlier, whether you know it or not, I failed your nephew.//

"On the contrary, you have every right."

"I do not understand." //But I think perhaps I'm starting to. A lot will depend on her explanation now.// Van thought, watching the woman's face. It remained unreadable, trained to stillness by a lifetime of etiquette and the ruthless politics of successful business. But Van had learned body speak from the best, and could not doubt the sincerity of her declaration.

"You are one of my clan, and you need assistance. Therefore, assistance will be granted in any way possible." She paused to straighten her tea-whisk. Thirsting for more detail, for her to confirm his guesses, Van allowed a faint shadow of enquiry to cross his own face. He was rewarded when she continued, the slightest tilt of her lips acknowledging his tactic. 

"You carried the Hagoromo. You undertook the duty of this clan, and discharged it honorably. I do not know how it is you came to hold the Hagoromo in the first place, and I do not need to. Kaguya-hime trusted you to retain it until her need – our need - was dire before reclaiming it, and that is all I the information I require. She would not have done so had your conduct towards my nephew been anything other than honorable. Kaze-sama would never have given it to you in the first place had he doubted you. It is a sacred trust, and by passing such a heavy burden on to you, he also passed this clan, grown strong to support the bearer, to you." She heightened her already straight posture, the diminuitiveness of her stature vanishing as she made eye contact with all the grace and power of centuries of honor behind her. "We are your Clan, Van. You are one of ours, and we care for our own.

"How can I help?"

Van paused for a minute, thinking rapidly. The idea that presented itself to him, so impossible on his own, would be earth-shatteringly simple with Mireba support. He looked at her again. She had not moved, sitting gracefully and determinedly. Here, then, was the power, the mind behind the Mireba rise through industry to economic greatness, all commerce made subservient to a single task. As one who aided that task, that mission, he would have her support. The similarities to the Bat-family ethos struck him, washing away the last of his doubts.

He took a deep breath, and answered her.

The lady of the Mireba clan remained seated in the small dojo room long after Van, technically the titular head of the clan by his role as Hagoromo-bearer (but she had no intention of telling him **that** - he had enough to deal with already) had left. What he asked was simple enough, and his phrasing, as well as the fiction he requested she assist in perpetrating told her more about what had likely happened to her own nephew.

 //Kidnap we knew about. But now it seems as though the motive behind it was not so simple as merely access to a celestial being's robe, despite the immense power such an artifact possesses. Perhaps the kidnappers had no idea that that was even what Kaze carried; certainly, it is a secret we've always guarded jealously. If the aim was the robe, why, then, take Van as well? Why the mind games, the neurological rape? No, I suspect the aim was both more complex, and eminently simpler; the acquisition of remarkable young people.// Alone, she allowed herself the luxury of a slight frown. She'd have her people look into that, see how many other such youths had vanished. She knew how talented Kaze had been at strategy and martial arts, and suspected Van was similarly gifted if not more so. //If someone's building an army of superbly competent teens, I want to know about it.// Her old rival Luthor sprang to mind, but there'd been nothing in her recent intelligence to support his involvement in Kaze's disappearance. //And I looked. Very, very closely.// 

The second task was to find out more about this man Van had mentioned. //Jack Drake.// Her face smoothed again. She knew the man, though not personally. A midrange player in the power-and-money games of America's financial elite, he and his holdings had remained too minor to show any real effect on the international market. //Not without potential, though well overshadowed by his Gothamite neighbor Wayne Enterprises.// 

She'd been content with that level of familiarity until the present circumstances. Now, with the task entrusted to her by Van, she was unwilling to make her play on such meager information. Much depended on the success of this, including the happiness of a troubled child. //And he is my troubled child. My Clansman, no matter what accident of fate saw him birthed elsewhere. My Lord Hagoromo-bearer, whose aptitude in discharging his task brings honor to my clan. Most of all, he is my nephew's legacy and my daughter's gift. I will not let him down.//

So the man Drake had hired a private investigator. Though clumsily overt, the idea was not without merit, however she preferred her 'in-house' services to outsourcing on matters such as these. Van's self-appointed task of seeking out Kaguya-hime and her otherworldly servant suited him. Indeed, as the former carrier of the Hagoromo, he was uniquely placed to ascertain the fate and plans of the Mireba Clan's supernatural patrons. //And I, with my earthly resources, am equally appropriate to the task at hand here.// She would make her own discreet enquiries; Van was important, both to her clan, and to herself //He is all I have left of my daughter//. She would not let him down.

**********

Jason Bard, private investigator, was by nature a nosy, thorough man. So when a gift horse cracked open his latest case, he was more than a little inclined to examine it's mouth, teeth – indeed, the entire head of the metaphorical animal, and much of it's body besides.

What he found was, he suspected, exactly what he was allowed to find; enough data to confirm the veracity of the information he'd been given and not one iota more. //The key phrase there is 'been given',// he brooded moodily. //Not 'found', but been given. They contacted me.// If he were painfully honest with himself, he'd admit that the Drake case had been going absolutely nowhere since his abortive attempt to access more than the boy's autopsy report from the Gotham PD. 

The proverbial equine came in the form of a telephone call, followed up by a letter and an offering of a meeting with his client, Jack Drake. At his own discretion, Bard agreed to DNA testing run by an independent third party (one chosen by Bard himself, after he'd placed a call to a certain redhead who'd more or less run the entire Gotham PD during No Man's Land. Heck, if her recommendation wasn't trustworthy, whose was?). The samples of hair taken from the baby locket found among the personal effects of his employer's deceased wife, strands of which Jack Drake had duly passed on to him, were a perfect match. //The whys and hows aside,// Bard contemplated as he picked up the phone, //the boy's been found. Or at least, samples of his DNA have been. I guess the details will have to come at a later stage.// Dialing the Drake's private number, Bard marshaled his thoughts.

"Mr. Drake? Jason Bard here. Your son has surfaced."

"Timothy? He's alive? You've seen him?"  
  
"I've been given reason to believe he's alive, though I've not seen him myself."

"What? That doesn't make sense! I expected you to deliver my son, not these vague stories!"

"Mr. Drake –"

"Where is he?"

"I've been contacted by an agency after they heard of my inquiries on your behalf. The DNA samples they provided from their adopted boy match the hair you gave me from your son, and they wish to speak with you. I've got the number to arrange a meet-"

"What is this? Some gold-diggers who want money now that they realize they've got **the** Drake boy? I won't stand for that! How do I know he's the real one? I want to see him! I want repeat testing and I want to watch the sample taken from him at the time! What, they're after some sort of reward or ransom?!"

"No, Mr. Drake, I don't think that's the case at all, you see-"

"Enough! You can fill me in later. In fact, I expect a complete report. That's what I pay you for. Now what's the number for a meeting? I've business commitments until at least Wednesday, so I need to start arranging things now." 

The number handed over, and the conversation concluded, Jason Bard heaved a sigh as he put down the suddenly too-heavy receiver. //Funny reaction, that. Most parents of missing children are overwhelmingly pleased to hear that their child is alive and willing to drop everything to see them. Doubts about identity, if there are any, usually come later. Maybe that's the difference between the filthy rich and the rest of us mere mortals. But really, in fact, this entire investigation is odd, from the way it went down on through to this little development.// A small frown creased his forehead as Bard mentally calculated all the things that didn't quite add up. 

//Whether Drake is contented or not, it looks like I've more investigating to do before I close this case to my **own** satisfaction.//


	6. Chapter VI

The Broken Glass Eulogy   
chapter VI.

Disclaimer: as with all previous parts of this story, the characters portrayed herein belong to AOL/TimeWarner, with the exception of my original characters. If you're reading this fic, then odds are you know which is which. No profit is being made from this work of fanfiction. 

NOTE: If you're reading this, then thank you for bearing with me. The scene and dialogue in the latter part of this fic was very difficult to write the first time around, and the second attempt proved no easier. Hopefully it's worth the wait.

As the opening move of this endeavor was at her discretion, it was several days before the Mireba head contacted Drake's private investigator. In the interim, she marshaled her own considerable resources to discover more about the man, this Jack Drake, who would lay claim to one of her own.

In a remarkably short time (even by her own standards) she sat with all the bald facts in front of her; Drake had been a hands-off parent even before a crippling accident from which he was still recovering – one that had killed his equally hands-off wife of the time – and then in an interesting dichotomy he'd called in business favors high and low to have Gotham reopened and the boy found when his son went missing in the chaotic aftermath of No Man's Land. 

Then he'd headed off for a honeymoon in a manner that left him uncontactable for the better part of a year, not only by his company, but his only child as well. //Very trusting of his business associates, that man.// That the company had flourished without his input was incidental. //Why did he sever communication with his son like that?// More riddles. Absently, she tapped a long fingernail against the desk, //it's almost as if the child is of no concern until somebody else gets involved with him, to make a difference. And then Drake rousts himself possessively until it all settles again.// If that was the case, it would appreciably impact on tone and direction of her plans. //This will require considerable finesse to mitigate his 'ownership' instincts.// 

But finesse, discretion and subtlety she had in abundance. //And alternatively,// she noted dryly, //the financial backing to combat his influence.//

Still, even with the facts at her disposal, there was nothing that could substitute for meeting the man, gaining an impression. Accordingly, when his secretary contacted the number she'd had supplied to the PI, she arranged for the meeting to occur at one of the Mireba industries' subsidiary companies. A small, for all intents and purposes American interest, the building in which it was housed sported a number of one-way glass panes. //No prizes for guessing the sort of businessman who arranged for this to be built.// still, it served her purposes admirably, allowing her the luxury of a few minutes of unobserved assessment of the Drake man.

She did not like what she saw.

//The man wears arrogance like a fine cloak, buttressed by selfish entitlement.// She noted, watching as Jack Drake strode into the room, his attempts to dominate the chamber laughably unsuccessful. If anything, it merely heightened the quiet power of the other man who entered behind him.

//An employee, by definition a servant. However, I suspect he is anything but servile.// This man, her instincts told her, would be the one to convince. Her face serene, she mentally catalogued her information, the data she had on this lawyer.

The lawyer in question was Ron James, one of the few people that Jack Drake trusted absolutely implicitly. He had good reason to; the man had been his room mate in college, frequently stepping in and bailing out the younger, wilder, Drake heir from innumerable scrapes (more the results of his own ill-advised escapades than of any circumstance thrust upon him.) And Jack's father, recognizing potential and loyalty when he saw it; had arranged for tuition fees to be paid for the brilliant though impoverished James. In point of fact, the half-orphaned James had taken to the now-deceased Drake patriarch as the father he'd never had. Canny as he was, Jonah Drake had never seen fit to disabuse the young lawyer of the notion, and even after death the loyalty lingered on. Hence, Jack Drake was assured of excellent legal counsel and, when it was crucial, of a cool head to temper his own reactions.

It was that moderating influence that he would need today, and need badly.

Lady Mireba entered behind her own battery of legal counselors. Though well able to take utter charge of a room on the power of her own charisma, she was equally adept at other, more chameleonic, approaches. //Drake will ignore me. He will see me as a woman, one of several people on this team, and he will underestimate me.// Unsurprised, she noted the effectiveness of her tactic. //He does not even ask for my name. Rude, but not out of character given what I know of him.// With a dispassionate calm that belied the importance of what was at stake in this meeting, she observed the man's ill-disguised emotions. //Wariness, hope. Some confusion laced with a smattering of uncertainty and a large dose of resentment. Interesting. Does he even want his son back, or merely feel that he should want his son back? Perhaps it is resentment that what he sees as 'his' is in the hands of another.// Time, she knew, would tell.

In fact, it took rather a shorter period than even Lady Mireba had anticipated. Barely waiting for the social pleasantries of introduction, Jack played his heavy-handed opening gambit; "Well, where's my son? I didn't come here to bandy words around. I came here to pick him up and take him off your hands."

"There appears to be some misunderstanding," Smith, one of Mireba Industries best American lawyers, purred. "As outlined in the brief I forwarded to your offices, this meeting is to discuss the possibility of you obtaining limited access to the adopted child of the family I represent. There is certainly no question of you 'picking him up and taking him off our hands'."

"Adopted son of - ?! What garbage is this! He's my son, my flesh and blood, and that gene test proves it!"

"Jack . . ." Ron put a warning hand on his boss's arm, all parties watching impassively as the smaller man visibly reined himself in. When it was apparent Drake's outburst was under control, Smith continued.

"The genotyping is not under dispute. That is why we are here. My clients have very generously considered allowing you some contact with their son, who, I will take this opportunity to add, has been adopted by them in full accordance with the law, and with the boy's complete consent. They are doing so because they feel it is important that their child has the option of having contact with his genetic sire, and he has agreed to having this avenue opened. Whether and when he chooses to use it once opened is up to him."

James visibly seized on the second part of the statement, apparently mulling it over. Drake, however, settled for merely reacting to the first. 

"Complete consent?! Are you mad? This is all some fancy scheme, isn't it? Some two-bit foster family tumbled onto just who they were looking after and fast-tracked an adoption so they could hit me, the millionaire Jack Drake, up for some extortion money?! Well, it won't work! I'm Jack Drake, and if that boy is my son – which I'll check by repeating that test - then I'm taking him back and I'm not paying a penny to this so-called 'adoptive family'!"

When Smith spoke again, it was with an iciness that had reduced more than one witness' knees to water on the stand. "On the contrary, Mr. Drake. The family did not seek to adopt the son of Jack Drake. They adopted an amnesiac boy of approximately fifteen years of age."

"Interesting that they only came forward after my client instigated a private investigation into his son's disappearance." Ron James observed, his own voice a velvet calmness, steel glinting beneath it.

"Yes indeed. As outlined in the brief sent to Mr. Drake's offices, my client's family went to great lengths to attempt to discover their foster son's identity and ascertain if he had any surviving genetic relatives. Not only did they co-operate fully with police and Juvenile Welfare investigations into the matter, they also used other avenues of investigation. The judge, in approving the adoption, ruled that all reasonable efforts had been taken by the government bodies and that the family's efforts were 'above and beyond what was necessary to fulfill both the letter of the law, and it's spirit,'."

"Yet I note they persisted with their other lines of inquiry until well after the adoption was finalized."

"That is correct. In fact, the further investigations were only ceased at the boy's request. He was more than happy with his new situation, and felt no need to continue. As our efforts had stalled this was considered a reasonable request, as documented in the memo of which Drake's offices were sent a copy."

James shot Drake a bland glance, and behind her own careful mask, Lady Mireba smiled inwardly. Clearly Jack Drake's clumsily ham-fisted approach to conversation was mirrored in other aspects of his life, including the sharing of relevant information with his own legal counsel. //If he chooses not to pass on documentation to his lawyer, then who am I to argue? It certainly makes my task simpler.//

"Strange that they should fail in their investigations where my own client's PI was so successful." James commented, his voice carefully devoid of inflection in what was obviously a desperate attempt to rally at what he knew was most likely a lost point of the argument.

"Not at all; after all, we ceased our inquiries before Jack Drake had returned from his honeymoon, moved cities, consolidated his holdings and then finally instigated a follow-up to the missing persons report lodged by Brentwood Academy." The rebuke, inexplicit but not unfelt, hung in the air for the merest pause before Smith smoothly continued, "Timothy Drake was listed as a casualty of a warehouse fire at the time, and we had no reason to suspect that this might be anything other than fact. In fact, if you'd care to check the police records, you'll note he was removed from the missing persons list a good month before the adoption process, and our attendant investigation, was initiated."

Smith paused, allowing a moment for Drake or his lawyer to offer any other interjections. None were forthcoming. 

"You were invited here today to meet with us, the legal representatives of the Casey family, to discuss whether you would be willing to meet their son and offer him the opportunity to get to know you, realizing that he's clinically amnesic to most of his life prior to their rescue of him from the streets several months ago."

"The . . . streets . . ." Jack Drake looked frankly shocked, and lady Mireba found herself warming to him slightly. Then he shook himself, returning to his previous argument with the tenacity of a terrier, "'their' son? And what if I choose to contest the adoption? Do you really think this family, what did you call them? The Caseys? Do you really think they can afford to fight me in court? I am Jack Drake! I have the Drake financial empire at my disposal!" He ignored the warning look shot at him by his own lawyer.

His smug assurance irritated the head of the Mireba clan. //Let's put this idea to rest before it gains any momentum at all,// "Indeed, you do, Mr. Drake. And Kaguya and Shishou Casey have the moral, social, and financial support of the Mireba corporation." As expected, her calm pronouncement was met with a hissing intake of breath from James – whose poker-face still did not waver – and a faintly gob-smacked expression from Drake himself. His shock kept him docile as James lead him from the room, citing a need to speak privately with his client. Clearly, Drake had not taken the time to research exactly who owned the building the meeting had been set in. //Odd, that,// Lady Mireba mused. //Intelligent enough to hire a PI to start an investigation, but too sloppy to follow every avenue that it generates.// Certainly, the Drake man did not appear to be lacking in basic intelligence. //But that's clearly not where Van gets his brilliance from. I wonder what the biological mother was like.//

Naming the family had been a risk. There was always the possibility of Drake seeking more . . . forceful . . . means of overturning the adoption once he had a name and with it the ability to trace Van to a school. //But Kaguya-hime and the Shishou have made certain that Van is more than capable of handling any kidnap attempts, and the legal mess it would engender would solve his custody and contact problems very neatly.// She suspected there was more to the youth's request to initiate contact than the simple realization of who his parents were. //I do not know whose idea re-establishing contact was, but I doubt it was his.//

Still, the 'Caseys', as she had very carefully organized the paper-trail to show, were an established Japanese-American family who had worked for the Mireba clan for generations as agents in the USA, establishing a financial foothold before the corporation's eventual expansion into the area. //The working 'for' may be incorrect – directly inverse to our true task of working to protect Kaguya-hime's Hagoromo – but the generations of contact is certainly appropriate.// 

She had thought long and hard before making them the adoptive parents in that tangle of paper and red tape. It had seemed almost obscene to bind such illustrious spirit-beings to the mundanities of bureaucracy, to create a paper-trail life for them. //But more obscene would be to deny the very real bond between them and their poor, lost little Hagoromo bearer.// The boy, affection-starved and soul-shaken, had flowered under their care. //And Kaze could ask for no greater homage than that.// 

She herself had felt that, quite aside from all the questions raised by having the boy who had attended school with the surname of 'Casey' suddenly have been adopted by the 'Mireba' family – who were not American citizens, no matter how powerful and subtle they were within the American financial scene – this would build a much tighter legal case. //Though I wonder what Kaguya-hime will make of her new 'citizenship' when she returns.// Lady Mireba was fairly sure the celestial princess would understand, and possibly even be amused by the games and machinations of her human supporters.

Outside the room where Mireba sat musing, a heated argument of whispers was occurring. Ron James, wasting little time berating his boss for not providing him with copies of all the documentation he'd been sent in advance by the Casey-Mireba legal team (he, after all, had been informed by Drake that it was a simple matter of 'picking the boy up', and that he was to be there for moral support as much as anything.) was rapidly informing Drake of his legal options.

Which were, frankly, not many. A second meeting several days later, this time only between Drake and James after the former had given the latter every scrap of relevant paper in his possession showed just how water-tight the case was.

"Jack, before we go back there this afternoon, there are things that I need to advise you of." Jonah took a deep breath, readying himself. Watching him, Jack held up a hand.

"Ron, are you advising me as a friend or as my legal counsel?" He waited as James contemplated this.

"Both, I think. But we'll start with the legal bits. I've gone through their paperwork with a fine-tooth comb. There are no, and I mean no, loopholes in their adoption. The judge even said that the PI investigation they undertook was well beyond what was necessary. These guys have dotted their 'i's and crossed their 'T's every step of the way. The fact that **they** sought **you** out through your PI only weighs more heavily in their favor. On paper, your position really doesn't look good."

"But with my money . . ."

"You'll lose."

"What! Why?"

"I spoke to Ned over in finances." Drake nodded in recognition. The elderly whiz was responsible for a large part of the Drake empires rise to financial strength in both Drake's father's day and now in his son's. "All the favors you had, you've cashed in already. Luthor owes you nothing after getting Tim out of No Man's Land, and every other business favor you had owing to you was spent consolidating holdings in Metropolis and New York." Jo paused, seeking the most delicate way of phrasing his next sentence. "Drake Industries is financially strong at the moment, the strongest it's ever been. But we still can't compete with Mireba on a dollar basis, and unlike us, a lot of people still owe them a whole stack of favors in the business world." 

"Wayne Industries . . . Bruce is a friend. . ."

"Yes. One who has also fought a bitter custody battle for his own adopted son. We can try, but the tentative feelers we put out to his office haven't been encouraging, though we've not spoken to the man himself." 

"What are you telling me, Ron? What can I do?" James sighed internally, he'd rarely seen his friend and boss look so lost. 

"As your lawyer, I can offer to fight this for you, but knowing we'll most likely lose both the legal suit and according to Ned, a lot of Drake industries with it." 

"And as my friend? As my college buddy?" 

"I'd say take what you can. You know I fought my own custody battle with Cathy over the girls after the divorce. Took me a year to get weekend access, and I'm their undisputed father with an impeccable parenting record; unlike Tim, there was no indication they were 'going off the rails' while I was still around twenty-four seven, their school counselor never filed a report that they were being physically beaten, I never put them in boarding school because I couldn't handle them at home, I was never uncontactable for the better part of a year, and there's no adoption-by-someone-else to contest."  Seeing the effect his intentionally harsh words had had, he followed them up quickly. 

"What they're offering you is a great deal. After the first meeting, you get weekends with your son at least once a month initially, and more if he wants it. If he starts behaving like a delinquent in their care, then that only strengthens your position if you want to contest for more access time later. Plus, speaking from personal experience here, having weekends means you can be the 'fun' parent and not the disciplinarian," Ron smiled slightly, thinking of his own two children, "and that may make your relationship with Tim even better. Certainly, better than it was before you had to put him into Brentwood," Ron commented, thinking of the late night phone-calls from his friend, the conversations about his disintegrating relationship with his son. //The boy was going feral, Jack, though I can't tell you that. This offer is heaven-sent, tailor-made for you and your preferred method of part-time parenting.//

"Besides, when you look at the deal they're offering you, you'll actually have more time to spend with Tim than you did when you put him into Brentwood. The only difference will be that he's legally someone else's child."  //Which I know will grate on you. You do tend to get possessive, Jack, but I can't tell you that, either,// James decided, opting for a more diplomatic approach.

"Whether that changes things socially or in your relationship, I don't know. You haven't seen him for over a year, remember, and that'll change things even more. Amnesiac or not, Jack, at fifteen he's nearly an adult. If he says he wants to spend more time with you, then the courts will listen. Likewise, if he says he wants nothing to do with you at all, then that's also pretty compelling."

Drake, never a large man, crumpled in on himself at that.

"Lose the company. Not even have my son back." He looked devastated. "Or have to bow to someone else. They're calling the shots, Ron, and I hate it. I hate it most of all!" Ron looked startled at that, the expression of utter candor and self-honesty from Jack was unusual. //Kids aren't possessions, Jack. And your pride isn't worth your son's happiness. But I've already pushed our friendship pretty far today with my honesty, and some things don't need to be said to be felt.// 

"Let me think. I just need to think." James nodded at Jack Drake's plaintive request.

"All the time you need, buddy. And I'm here if you want to talk."

". . . Thanks . . ."

Twenty minutes later, Lady Mireba received a very polite phone call, requesting an appointment to set up a time and place for the first meeting, on neutral ground, of Jack Drake and Van Casey.

TBC. . .

NOTE: The counselor who filed a physical abuse report was 'Earlene', Tim's school counselor in the Robin II miniseries. Tim was put into boarding school around Robin #98 or so (my collection of 'Robin' issues is in a different state at the moment, so I can't give you the exact number, nor Earlene's last name.) and he's been 'going off the rails' in his father's eyes ever since Jack was alive enough to be a character in the Bat-books and consider him to be doing so.


	7. Chapter VII

The Broken Glass Eulogy

Chapter VII

Disclaimer: Most of the characters portrayed herein belong to DC comics, which as I understand it is a division of AOL/TimeWarner. The rest of the characters belong to me. If you're reading this fic, presumably you know which is which. No financial gain is being made from this work of fanfiction.

NB: this fic was started some years ago, when Young Justice was still active, Batman had only just told a still-alive Spoiler Robin's secret identity, the recent events within the Demon's family hadn't yet happened, Infinite Crisis and Identity Crisis weren't even thought of, and I hadn't developed a nearly irresistible urge to stand in front of DC's head office waving a placard reading 'Give Me Back My Proper Cassandra Batgirl And Oh While You're At It How Dare You Character-Assassinate Leslie Like That'!

Ahem. So I guess that makes this even more AU than you'd think. Never mind, I'll put all the characters back more or less where I found them when I'm done.

Van received the news with the same calm that he took notification of any new mission. For, he told himself, that was all it was. A task, with set goals and parameters. One the Batman considered vital. The first part of the mission, establishing contact, had been almost too easy. He doubted phase two would be as simple.

What did surprise him was the faint flicker of hope, of pleasurable anticipation, that sparked deep within him. Somewhere, knotted into the tapestry that formed the new self he'd become, enough shreds of the old Tim Drake's affection for his father remained to make it so. Mentally, he congratulated the Batman on his perspicacity. He'd save any verbal congratulations for after the meeting, though, assuming it went well. Any recriminations would never pass his teeth. This was a mission; if it went badly, it would still have been deemed necessary.

He packed quickly, lightly. A duffle bag, deceptively bland and generic, hid a spare uniform below a false base. Clothes, of good make and repair though muted tone and style, followed. After a brief pensive pause, Van elected to leave his hair in its usual long braid. /The less I resemble 'Robin' per se, the better for my secret identity./

He left just as trouble arrived, the high speed train to Metropolis coasting away from Gotham's imminent disaster with the blissful unconcern of ignorance.

He never arrived.

To his credit, Batman had fully, albeit only mentally, debated whether or not to bring the youngest of the Bat clan in on the latest catastrophe. He argued both sides of the issue, examined the facts and explored the motivations of his current foe, the method behind the insanity of his attack. Deeply, though briefly, he examined the likelihood of being able to manage the current threat without the additional aid and team work of the latest Robin.

He'd decided not to involve the boy. A decision made easier by the fact that Robin was out of the city by the time the ransom demand came in, on a train headed for Metropolis at slightly under one hundred miles an hour. Thus secure in his knowledge, he gave his protégé no direct instructions for forty precious minutes; after all, Robin would be on the train for a good four hours and then in Metropolis, so unable to act for at least another four hours (should he return immediately by high-speed private jet – assuming he could access such a resource) or longer. Batman wasn't certain where the boy would locate such a form of transport/but I wouldn't put it past him to try./

The Batman hadn't counted on Van, every bit the Bat's student, having taken the opportunity to bug Oracle's communication network.

He'd done so some months prior; waste not, want not.

This still did not mitigate the fact that he was on a high-speed train, traveling away from the action with his portable internet connection detailing everything he was missing out on. A high speed non-stop service, to be specific.

That particular fact did slow him down, but only slightly: while it was true that the train was non-stop, it still did have to dawdle down to a mere 60 miles an hour in Bludhaven. The congested, tortuous tracks around that city had grown as organically (and hence sloppily) as the municipality itself, complicating an otherwise smooth transit, and it was here that Van shut the lid of his laptop with a determined snap. / If there's to be a psychotic freak ransoming Gotham with chemical oblivion, then I need to be there./

By the time they reached the outskirts of Bludhaven, there was an empty seat in one of the compartments, and a vigilante on the roof of another, held in place by portable suction clips (the devices were quite ingenious, packing away as they did to a mere six millimeters thick, to stow in one of the boy wonder's belt pouches.)

As luck – or at least the particular vagaries of the trans-American transport services - would have it, the Gotham-Metropolis express ran for a good half a mile next to the track on which its much older sibling, the Gotham-Bludhaven, rattled and clanked along at a much more reserved thirty miles an hour. Fortunately for Robin, at this time the two were headed in the same direction. He had just under a minute to make the transfer/no challenge at all./

And indeed, it wasn't. A simple grapple-line transfer shifted him across to the slower train with grace and efficiency.

Getting on transport headed back to Gotham was somewhat more difficult. Mentally consulting the timetable he'd glanced at briefly before embarking on his trip, Robin catalogued the possibilities.

/Going on a plane at the muddled excuse for an airport here in Bludhaven is too slow. The next train to Gotham is a milk-run, so even slower. The bus only goes three times a day... hmm./ a slightly evil looking smirk creased his lips. Devoid of true joy, it none the less oozed a certain gleeful anticipation/I wonder what Big Brother is doing./ Deed matched thought, and he leapt to one of the regional trains with the graceful aplomb of semi-familiarity (though no blindfold. This time.)

Nightwing, as it turned out, wasn't home. Van hadn't really expected him to be; with a crisis on in Gotham of the major-biological-weapon magnitude, he'd doubtless headed back as soon as he'd heard. /Much as I myself will be doing./ Whether Batman liked it or not, wanted to protect him or not/or considers me still too much of a loose cannon or not/ the Joker roaming free was a substantial threat. Joker with one of Cadmus' latest toys was even worse.

Burning rubber down the expressway on his 'borrowed' bike (Nightwing had all the best toys), it never occurred to Van to worry about the veracity of Oracle's information. After all, it was Oracle. And she was never wrong, especially about the whereabouts of the Joker.

He conveniently forgot about the time he'd tampered with her information himself, discounted the potential that someone else might well be able to do the same.

That someone else did, in fact, exist. And, though very skilled, she was still somewhat raw, her hacks lacking a certain finesse. To be fair, it wasn't as if computers were the only – or even a major – part of her work. Keeping up with The Demon's Head took a good deal more than simple digital acumen.

Nonetheless, Talia had settled back with a satisfied, if wistful, smile after she'd completed the mis-information. /My Darling, I want – need – you busy. Father is determined to have this newest Lazarus pit, even though all the dictates of the pit, the earth's electromagnetic confluences, say it must be constructed on a site that happens to be in Gotham. But there is little – other than Father and myself – that will keep you as busy as the Joker./

The site itself was under the Gotham superbowl. Construction was already beginning apace. The Bat's attention needed only to be diverted long enough for a particularly incriminating shipment to be secured there. Although not keen to have the Pit in Gotham for any reason, Talia was nonetheless pleased that it had at least served to divert her father's attention. /He was furious after the computer, and the first of our subjects, was destroyed! And with the machine gone, there's no point in looking for the second candidate. What we need now is to find the Doctor's elusive success, the subject 'Twenty'./ The search, she knew, continued through all her contacts around the world.

It continued, and, to date, it had produced nothing. Twenty, it seemed, had gone to ground. /So this Pit will at least occupy Father's mind for a little time. Father's, and my darling's./

In a way, her efforts had the opposite effect to that she desired; by the time Robin was twenty minutes out of Gotham, Oracle had discovered the lie, dismissed it, stood down the Bat-team, and was busily ferreting out what, precisely, someone had felt necessary to hide with such subterfuge.

By the time he was ten minutes out, she was lividly explaining to Batman just what – and who – had been concealed right under their doorstep. Unfortunately, she did this via comm. Also unfortunately, Robin was not at that stage listening in (the tunnel entry to Gotham occasionally had that effect on the older comm units, and this was what Robin had stashed in his bag for his 'weekend away', reasoning this was less likely to be missed by the Bat than one of the newer pieces.)

Robin, for his part, in the interests of preserving his secret identity (especially after Batman had gifted him with it) had failed to mention in his report on his last adventure with Young Justice that his room at the boarding school had been trashed as thoroughly as Yuki's when she'd been taken. This meant that information was thus lacking to two individuals; Robin was unaware that the Demon was the perpetrator of the current crisis, and Oracle was unaware that the Demon had taken a close interest not in the Boy Wonder (par for the course) but in his alter ego.

The lack of information was to prove devastating.

Robin burst through the stagnant air of the tunnel in the fresh – if uncharacteristic - sunshine of the Gotham side. A snippet of conversation over the comm-link gave his energy direction; ". . . at the Superbowl Stadium right now! How could we not see it?"

Thought matched information, and with a shrieking wail of tires, Robin spun the bike onto the turnpike exit, heading for the sports field.

The Demon had seen them coming. Somehow, he'd known.

Or else he was just naturally cautious, despite the hubris that had brought him here, to his great foe's stronghold.

The Ubu guards stationed around the stadium in direct contrast to the supposedly 'innocent' nature of the construction barely slowed Nightwing down, though he and Batman did break a sweat after they dispatched the fiftieth who charged at them with a screaming yell. Batman welcomed the attack. He was angry. Very, very angry.

Angry at the Demon, for deceiving him. Angry at himself, for being deceived. It was a cold rage, harsh and unrelenting, and it carried him forward even as he and Nightwing split up, the one to find – and destroy – the Lazarus Pit, the other to make sure that the biological weaponry with which the whole farce had begun was indeed fictional.

Robin, arriving slightly later, and still well-aware that he'd not been 'invited' to play, picked his way through the debris with graceful, rapid nonchalance, clobbering the few remaining guards not already moaning on the ground. Said nonchalance lasted precisely until he identified one of the guards as an Ubu. /Ra's Al Ghul/ His own rage, so similar to his mentor's, dwarfed the Bat's in scope.

Over the comm, he heard Batman's growled negative; no weapons, no pit, no Demon. The harsh sounds of battle that formulated Nightwing's reply were all the information he needed. A moment to track the second comm, and he was off, running with a light surefootedness that would have been beautiful in its economy were it not spoiled by the look on his face; hate, rage, a deep burning grief.

Robin ran, deeper into the building, he ran. Through the labyrinthine bowels that made up the service tunnels below the stadium, he ran. Sometimes skipping along on the exposed beamwork that made up the roofs of the chambers in which he found himself, well over the heads of the more sluggish guards, sometimes along the concreted floors of the dank passageways.

It was the corridors that were the slowest; gradually filling with more guards of varying degrees of expertise as he came closer and closer to his goal. He demolished them utterly, largely without even breaking stride, adding his own contribution to the fracas that Nightwing had left behind during his own inroads into the building.

An abrupt left, and he was at the epicenter, the sight causing him to inhale sharply.

Some two floors below the gantry on which he found himself, a fully functional Lazarus Pit seethed and bubbled. Next to it. . .

Next to it a somewhat battered Nightwing was mopping the floor with an even more battered Shrike. /Looks like the Demon has hired semi-local talent this time./ Grimly, Robin noted that if that was all he'd had available, it was small wonder he'd invested such time and capital in finding Yuki and programming her. Shrike was good, it was true/ but he's no Cain or Deathstroke./

As if on cue, an orange and blue clad figure detached itself from the shadows, a particularly vicious looking knife held firmly in one hand, treading with panther-like stealth towards the oblivious Nightwing. /Big Brother/

Robin wasn't fully conscious of moving. One moment he was on the gantry, the next he was flying, a deceleration cord flung around a crane, swooping down.

His booted feet struck the assassin firmly in the back, snapping him forward into a boneless recovery roll.

By the time he'd converted his own backflip-half pike into a defensive stance, the larger man was upon him, knife raining a hail of blows.

Robin ducked and wove, deflecting, sidestepping and sweeping away the strikes. It was a dance, beautiful, graceful . . . ultimately, lethal. He forgot himself in the sheer joy of movement; strike, counterstrike. This was living! This was all he'd been designed for! Reining himself in, avoiding the killing blows that seemed to want to fly from his fingers, he avoided the shock that came with his emotion. It shouldn't be what he lived for, he should no-longer feel 'designed' for anything. But he did.

Dimly he heard Nightwing's startled cry, "Robin! Get back! That's Deathstroke!" Heard it, and ignored it. Deathstroke or not, he was an obstacle. One to be removed before it hurt his Big Brother. One to be removed so he could focus on his true target.

The evil, green-eyed maniac in front of him. The man who perused him with narrowed eyes, watching, calculating, evaluating. /His moves! He moves like -/ Al Ghul's eyes widened as Deathstroke landed a glancing blow to Robin's upper arm, slicing through the fabric and exposing a patch of still-raw skin, the recently removed tattoo still healing.

The tattoo that had contained a barcode, had defined him for the better part of a year, had read simply 'unit 20'.

The battle until then had been eerily quiet, bitter thuds punctuated by slapping kicks and harsh breaths. Now, a human voice played a disturbing under-melody. Softly initially, it rose, louder and louder, to a crescendo of glee. R'as Al Ghul was laughing. More than that he was chortling with an uncontrolled abandon that was wildly uncharacteristic for the man.

"Yes! Of all the places to find it! Yes!" The pronouncement startled Nightwing from where he'd secured the now unconscious Shrike. He turned, torn, between his initial compulsion to leap into the fray, to help his little brother, and now a second impulse to face this new threat.


	8. Chapter 8

The Broken glass Eulogy VIII

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. They belong to DC comics. I'm just using them for my own dubious enjoyment and will put them back more or less as and where I found them when I'm done. More or less.

Author's Note: Many thanks to all who C+C-ed on earlier parts of this fic. Your comments are greatly appreciated and the incentive to write more has been priceless.

Elsewhere . . .

It had been drowsing in the daylight, contented with its lot. The sun for this planet was warm, rich, red-gold. Heated, young and welcoming.

It rather liked it. It was pleased it had been given the opportunity to stay. Then the silent, psychic wail of emotional distress sliced through its torpor, tainting the brilliant afternoon with an edge of grimness. It was being called by that anguish, the familiarity of it sickening. With scarcely a thought spared in gratitude for the tracking beacon it had created last time, it responded. This time, it could find the anguished one. This time, it could pinpoint it with utter accuracy.

This time, it could save a soul.

Gotham . . .

On the ground, splayed in front of the man – monster - who sought to be his master, Robin's trembling ceased, replaced by a boneless floppiness. The face, screaming lips contorted into a rictus of agony, went abruptly slack, eyes staring blankly into a nothingness only they could see.

"Robin!" //Oh no, Oh no no no no!// Racing towards the fallen figure, Nightwing barely spared a glance for the powerful assassin who until recently had been his little brother's rather formidable foe. That assassin had retired to stand by his employer's side, his droll amusement at the turn of events evident even through his full-face mask.//How did we not see this coming?! If the kid who killed himself in Gotham Central PD had an override code, how could we not see this coming! When Robin didn't try again after his own self-destruct code was ordered, we assumed . . . Dammit! We assumed that getting Robin back instead of Twenty had somehow erased all of his own programming! We made a mistake, and now my little brother is paying for it!//

Nightwing barely had time to register the sudden, startling, turn of events before Robin was on him.

Only it wasn't Robin.

Behind the mask brilliant blue eyes, usually lively and intelligent, were flat, lifeless chips of ice. The emptiness was transmitted to the grim clutch of the lips, scissored shut around teeth. With the speed of reaction, faster even than thought, Robin – Vingt – had risen, turned, and leapt to the attack. Code One-Six-Eight. Target: Nightwing.

//DESTROY//

Code One-Six-Eight. Target: Nightwing.

"Robin," Punch, punch-kick-strike combination, "Robin . . . little brother, please!" Duck, weave.

//DESTROY//

Code One-Six-Eight. Target: Nightwing.

"C'mon! Wake up little brother!" Jab, feint. Wet sound of boot striking ribs through the thin fabric of Nightwing's costume, crunch as they broke. Breathing already heavy, now wet and gurgling. //Dammit! I don't know how long I can hold back – and stay back!// Sagging slightly, Nightwing tried again.

"This isn't you! Robin, this is NOT you! Fight it!!" Leap, impossibly high, out of the way of a deceptively elegant wind-through-reeds strike. //A single-blow killing strike! But slow. Fractionally slow. . .is he . . . hesitating? Gah, ribs are killing me!// Spin-pirouette.

//DEStroy…?//

Code One-Six-Eight. Target: Nightwing.

"Robin! You can beat this!" Jab, bounce, "you fought so damn hard to be free!" Backflip, sudden change to attack; punch, roundhouse kick. "Don't you dare give up now! Don't you dare!"

//Nightwing!? The Target is Nightwing?! What am I . . .?!// Further – still slight - hesitation as more of TimRobin than the Doctor's Vingt surfaced. //His voice, his moves, he doesn't want to hurt me. Why am I trying to hurt him. . .?//

Code One-Six-Eight. Target: Nightwing.

//DESTROY//

So powerful, so overwhelmingly strong. The command, the compulsion, to obey. To stop hesitating, to stop slowing himself. He could kill the older man without breaking a sweat, there were six ways he could see to do it right now. He was hesitating. Something was fighting within his programming, disrupting the seamless integration of command and deed. It hurt.

//DESTROY//

Ordered. . . commanded. . . overwhelming compulsion to obey . . .

//DESTROY//

//But I don't want to.//

//DESTROY//

//KAZE! I don't want to! Help me!//

//DESTROY//

"Robin! Fight it! Fight it off!" Nightwing's anguished yell added to the cacophony in his head.

//DESTROY//

Vingt's hand, of its own volition, snapped out, with practiced ease strong fingers avoided the vigilante's desperate counter, wrapping around his big brother's throat and choking off the pleading, rational voice of one he thought of as family. Choking off his air. //Kaze! Yuki! I don't want to! Let me stop!//

//DESTROY//

But Yuki and her cousin were silent, their memories comforting but fallow. //On my own. Command persists . . .// He'd never felt so abandoned.

//DESTROY//

The slim, strong hands clutched tight around his throat and Nightwing tumbled over, flat on his back with the slighter figure crouched on top of him. Nightwing saw stars dancing in front of his eyes; his ribs were on fire, burning up to join the sparks in his vision. Flames mirrored in, but not melting, the icy countenance above him. Unable to breathe, Nightwing settled for silent plea; //C'mon little brother, you can beat it! You can! I know you're faster than you fought just now! I know you're better! You held back! You can still hold back!// Parched lips, starved of air, mouthed a silent word.

"Tim," Above him, the frozen visage cracked. Above him, with all the breath that Nightwing himself had lost, Robin screamed.

//DESTROY//

//No. . .?//

//DESTROY//

//No.//

//DESTROY//

//NO!//

The codes, the programming, ran so deeply seated that to disobey was anathema, the agony of it a burning torture, a wound against self. But what 'self' was that? Sinking into a mire of soul-destroying pain, Vingt could find no answer.

He could, however find a resolution.

Nightwing gasped, sucking in great wheezing lungfuls of air as the steel-like digits around his neck abruptly slackened. His vision cleared, and he stared up into a face he knew as well as his own; //You did it little brother!// Nightwing's joy, though heartfelt was short lived.

Above him duress and agony wracked his little brother's visage, determination warring with compulsion in a bitter, ravaging battle. He scarcely had a moment to note it, to turn to alarm, when the blank smoothness Nightwing had long since learned to dread began oozing across his sib's countenance. //Robin? What the -?!//

The wet thud sounded through the chamber with sickening familiarity. To Deathstroke it was typically the resonance of a job well done. The Demon's Head had heard it far too often, from himself and from others, to have attached a particular emotional value, though he noted it was usually indicative of a turning point. To Nightwing it signified utter failure.

To Vingt, staring down at the shuriken he had embedded in his own chest, it meant simply peace.

"Free . . ." Blood, brilliant red and arterial, bubbled around his lips. It didn't even hurt that badly, he decided. Not compared to how much the now rapidly failing command code had hurt. He was getting cold, though. //And someone's dimmed down the lights. That will make it colder still.// Nightwing had moved, somehow when he wasn't paying attention. That was good, he didn't need to be straddling the other in a death grip. But being held by his big brother was comforting. Like the first time he'd awoken in the cave, scared and disoriented, only to be protected by the other. Nightwing would make it less cold.

Still, cold or not, he'd won. He'd beaten the command codes and while they still whirled, lacerating his mind, trying to slice his 'self' to ribboned strips of pain, he held them in check. They were weakening. So was he.

//Soon it will not matter. I have broken my promise.// The pain was ebbing, and what had been so overridingly important was now difficult to care about.

A faint smile, pained but genuine, crossed his lips.

//Kaze, Yuki, I think I'm coming to see you. I'm sorry, but I will not survive.//

He wished, briefly, that he'd managed to meet his biological parent as Batman had wanted. He'd not completed that mission, and somewhere inside that irked him. He wasn't sure if it was residuals of the programming that made a mission failure so bothersome, or something innately his own.

Around him, the world continued its' slide to blackness. Nightwing was frantically doing . . . something . . . to his chest. //Bandages?// With a last burst of strength, Vingt caught his hands.

"I'm sorry, Big Brother. So s-sorry." His voice failed him then. //So sorry I hurt you.//

Freedom loomed. Freedom, and oblivion, and Vingt raced towards it willingly.

Holding him, Nightwing wasted no time on screaming as he started frantic CPR. He could do this! He could get his little brother back! He could! He –

Deathstroke's blow sent him spinning away from the small, fragile-looking corpse on the floor. Another nearly decapitated him. Furious, Nightwing counter-attacked. //How dare you! Every second I fight with you worsens my chance of saving him! How DARE YOU!// Now, Nightwing screamed, a livid, raging roar. Even Deathstroke the Terminator took a step back at that. But orders were orders, and the client had asked him to step in, to take Nightwing down or at least make him cease his resuscitation efforts.

And that is exactly what he intended to do. A clash of dagger against escrima, and the battle joined in earnest.

Though normally a flamboyant figure, R'as Al Ghul had had, over the millennia, more than a few opportunities to develop the stealth he now displayed. He had, he reasoned, mere moments before the Knight arrived. //For I doubt that many of my Ubu survived the interesting happenstance that meant that the Knight's latest squire was Unit Twenty.// That was a great pity, but like the simmering rage he felt – so close, so very close to having the ultimate assassin in his power! – he held it in check. Wanton destruction, while often very satisfying, would not, in this instance, be helpful. //Nor have I the blissful, disinhibiting insanity of the Pit to guide me.//

The project – the Unit Twenty – was indeed dead. His inspection yielded no possibility of doubt. //And I have seen many false deaths before.// Dead by its own hand, which should not have been possible without a self-destruct order.

The last legacy of the Doctor was a rapidly cooling pile of flesh. Its brilliance and elegance of design dimming, its functionality lost. //I wonder, was it a failure in programming or a partial override that brought this about?//

Al Ghul allowed himself a snarl of frustration.

//This is not how I had planned it!//

Grabbing a conveniently protruding corner of cape, he bundled the deadweight into it. It would not do to get blood down the front of his shirt. //And even in death, you may yield up some of the doctor's secrets.//

Turning his back on the battle that (unsurprisingly given Nightwing's acrobatic prowess) had turned into a sprawling clash that utilized walls, ceilings, and construction equipment with equal flair and aplomb, Al Ghul strode off, heading towards the bowels of his latest lair, skirting the nearly completed Lazarus Pit.

He never made it. As the full weight of the Batman crashed into his side, he wondered why he'd expected to. //Leaving with minimal fuss? Never, when the Detective is involved.// Still, the anger that roiled and bubbled beneath his surface needed an outlet, and the Dark Knight was as good as any.

Drawing his saber, he leapt to the attack, unceremoniously dumping the cloth-wrapped bundle he'd been carrying onto the wooden boardwalk. Meters away from the edge of the Pit, it would be safe enough.

So intent on his attack, and the Bat on his defense and counter, that neither noticed the slight 'pop', the faint displacing of air, that heralded a new arrival.

TBC

Comments, constructive criticisms, thoughts, and chocolate greatly appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

The Broken Glass Eulogy IX

By NChan

Disclaimer: uh, guys, it's posted on a _fanfiction_ site; I should think the fact that I don't own the vast majority of the characters I'm writing about would be made rather apparent by that particular happenstance. The large multinational corporation who _does_ own them is AOL Time Warner, and kudos to them for developing such a wonderful playground that I can put my own little sandpit into a corner of.

To those readers who took the time to comment, many thanks for your insights and feedback – it's not the only reason I write, but it _is_ the reason I post. As requested, a Tim-Dick stand-alone buddy fic is in the works; however having been bitten by a FMA bug, it will likely only make an appearance after I finish puttering with 'Equivalent Exchange'.

Though the planet was small, its bright yellow, young sun painted warmth and life onto it with abundance. Sometimes so much life that it crowded out specifics; individual mammalian signals overwhelmed by microorganism readings – sometimes even the bacteria in their own guts – made tracking difficult. So This One had learned to trace through bipedal emotional characteristics as well as phenotype. With a few notable – and easily locatable – exceptions, that tended to narrow searching down largely to the dominant species, homo sapiens sapiens. Distinguishing a few billion humans from among the other mammals wasn't hard, but using the burden of acute, overwhelming suffering as a tracer tended to have depressingly little effect on refining the search for any given individual all that much further; too many people were miserable at any given time.

Hence, when one of those homo sapiens sapiens in which it maintained a particular interest had gone missing in a bursting fire of pain and betrayal, it had been powerless to find the human in question. The resurfacing of said person nearly a full planetary cycle later had promptly resulted in the judicious placement of both biological and soul-based markers. Next time, This One would not be caught out. Next time, This One would find that human, anywhere. Even though they were currently separated by happenstance and priorities, This One took a certain comfort in instantaneous knowledge of the other's location as well as pleasure in his current lack of anguish; the human in question had been through a lot and watching the healing process start, however slowly and tentatively, was a source of joy. This One aided that progression as and where it could, the subtle manipulations it made no less important than the larger, cruder advances that other interested parties wrought.

All of that changed in a heartbeat. This One was revving nanoseconds after that, phasing through realms of rock and fire and air with the speed of thought. This One's flight took on an added grimness as the nature of the tracer's signal changed; no longer merely psychic pain, the human had suffered a severe physical blow. Perhaps even mortal in nature. But there is little that is fatal, This One knew, little that could not be fanned back from banked, deathly embers by This One's abilities provided a single, tiny spark of life remained. It would not be easy, healing never was, but it could be done.

The psychic tracer reading was gone; the human emitting no emotion. This One knew that was a bad sign. Even unconscious, homo sapiens sapiens as a species still tended to emanate snippets of feelings, rather like trace radiation. Now this one had to rely on the biological track, and the life spark was flickering. Someone there, already at the human's side, was trying desperately to keep it going. 'Cardiopulmonary resuscitation', This One knew, an emergency technique developed by the mammals for use on their own in desperation. Not as good as what This One could manage, but if it could fan the sputtering ember just long enough . . .

This One phased into the room as the spark guttered out. Life force extinguished.

Below This One's vantage point hovering near the roof, two battles raged; an acrobat against an assassin, and a vigilante against a madman. Neither combat mattered. There, on the floor, huddled under caped fabric that now held a forlorn double duty as a shroud, was all that was important. And it was dead, the size and force of personality diminished back to mere physical matter; tiny and brutalized. Healing was impossible now death had taken its' tithe. The injuries, both physical and mental, heaped upon the slim frame one after the other by a multitude of ordeals and tortures had finally proven too much to bear.

Life had slipped its leash, death embracing the spark with smothering greed. The sense of failure was absolute, This One could do nothing with meat; empty flesh was beyond its purview entirely.

Had it been able to speak, This One would have screamed; given voice to the futile rage and despair. It had failed The Rider a second, final time. There would be no third. The loss of the Rider swept through its bio-mechanical soul, an aching, unbearable emptiness in its wake. Immune to the fury emanating from the humans below it, it hovered, mired in the greater tragedy that had played out to its culmination.

Or not.

There was one final duty This One owed The Rider. It always owed its riders this last respect. A return to New Genesis for burial in the Great Sea, the cocktail of minerals there to preserve the corpse in a natural effigy for eternity; bones mineralizing slowly to salt, skin to alabaster, a monument to the legion of Riders and their much longer-lived mounts. That was the task. And This One was determined to undertake it, not to do so would be a final sacrilege; while This One had failed its Rider, the Rider himself had been clever and canny, caring and strong, one who had never wavered in his battle to protect others. Deserving, then, of the accolade, the final tribute.

Except that the rider was not New-Genesisian. Who knew what manner of entombment he would have wanted. Perhaps removing him from the planet, the city, he had fought so hard to protect would be the real sacrilege.

Perhaps there was a local variant, one equally as honorable, on the theme.

Briefly, This One's memory files flicked back to the evening they had shared, Rider and Ridden, on a mountainside on the largest of a chain of islands. That had been sacred, hallowed ground. But consecrated to whom?

Perhaps it would be better to take him back to the Others. This One did not know those who currently battled below, though it was sure that at least one of them had been responsible for the desperate – though futile – attempt at reviving the Rider. Still, not knowing which, This One was loathe to leave the body of the Rider with any below. The Others would know. The Flyers and the Speedster, the Priestess. They'd know how to get the Rider the memorial that he deserved in a context that would honor him.

So, This One needed to pack away the medical attachments it had readied within itself earlier, when the Rider still lived and This One had been determined to treat the homo sapiens Rider, to make him survive. This One should tuck them away, and transport the body.

The missile blast, aimed squarely at This One's flank, almost took it by surprise. Closely enough, in fact to graze This One's protective shielding and cause it to scud to one side, the projectile skittering upwards before exploding showily against the semi-completed rafters. Recalibrating its sensors, the supercycle realized that the launch had come from one side, vomited forth from an inconspicuous tunnel leading into the labyrinthine bowels of the building: It appeared that one of the two groups of combatants had reinforcements, and whichever team it was, they were not friendly to heroes or their Mounts.

Nor were they successful in their goal of supercycle destruction; This One was undamaged, but the same could not be said of the upper part of the building. With a groan of stressed steel and concrete that was as much felt as heard, the ceiling buckled, warped, and began to cave in.

As the falling debris worsened, it served merely to increase the vicious desperation of one battle, the other – between the acrobat and the soldier – tapered to a mutually agreed though unspoken end. It had one other effect; the strain on the steel pillars upholding the roof caused them to shift, the beams twisting and threading large cracks through the surface below, tipping the Rider's corpse into an uncontrolled tumble on the now-slanting floor. The acrobat dove for the body. The supercycle, though farther away, was faster.

Neither was fast enough.

Nightwing could only stare with abject horror as the cape that draped his little brother slipped past his hand; millimeters out of his reach, it may as well have been a mile as his fingers grasped thin air. The bundle that was his brother's corpse continued its grisly yet oddly graceful fall, plummeting downwards.

It landed, not with the expected sodden thud, but with an oily splash. A heartbeat later, and Nightwing realized the implications of the sound. //Oh dear God, the Pit! He – he's landed in the Lazarus Pit! It will bring Robin's body back! But who – or what - is it going to resurrect for his mind?!//

His little brother?

An ultimate killing machine?

Of one thing Nightwing was certain: it would not be both. As the past few months had proven, there was room only for one. Grimly, he dashed for the Pit, scaling the scaffolding and debris as easily as another might walk down a set of stairs.

Once again, he was seconds too slow.


	10. Chapter 10

The Broken Glass Eulogy X

By N-chan

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed herein do not, for the most part, belong to me. They belong to DC comics, which is a subdivision (as I understand it) of AOL Time Warner. I'm merely exploiting them for that which they were created; i.e. entertainment value. I'm also in the process of putting them back more or less as I found them. Suing me for copyright infringement or whatever would be a right royal waste of effort.

Note: Many thanks to those who've commented on this story in its numerous parts over time. I appreciate your insights and feedback tremendously.

The shift of earth and building, of bars and beams and devastated walls was, in the grand scheme of things, miniscule. Even the threatening oblivion would barely inconvenience those Gothamites who felt the need to 'catch a game' (which typically meant watching the Gotham Knights get thoroughly trounced by whatever team a given rival city chose to field.) They would go, for the day or the weekend, to the much cleaner, safer, brighter Metropolis; the Gotham stadium had been so long in refurbishment that the idea of a home game had become a paper-dream, mired in that potent combination of bureaucratic red tape and construction company graft. It was a dead-end surreptitiously added to by a certain Demon's Head.

Nor, indeed, did the explosive shivers seem likely to injure the people still within the building; those Ubu who were awake and able to walk had long since initiated the evacuation of themselves and their unluckier, more injured clansmen; a maneuver that had become well-practiced in recent months. Now, they were nearly all gone.

Those not of the Ubu tribe, deeper inside the stadium, had a rather more pressing set of concerns.

Deathstroke's concern was, as indeed he often found to be the case, monetary. If his current employer got himself killed, the payoff for this particular job would be substantially reduced. And said employer did seem to be undertaking a moderate effort towards that outcome; he was going at it hell-for-leather with the Bat in a clash of saber and batarang so furious it sent sparks raining between them. In and of itself, this wasn't much of a worry as the Bat never killed. Still, potentially expensive – that is, deadly - accidents could happen. The situation would have to be remedied promptly.

Batman on the other hand, expertly juggled several concerns; on the one hand there was the Demon, who would have to be subdued, bound, and delivered to the Slab where he could be duly chastised. On the other, there was the matter of his protégé; true, Nightwing's battle with Deathstroke appeared to have finished, but his former partner was very carefully not wincing and equally as cautiously not holding his ribs while breathing in a manner that enabled the Bat's single spared glance to diagnose as 'broken ribs, at least three of them and probably on the right' with the ease of long familiarity. Then there was the issue of what the black-wrapped bundle the Demon had been so taken with that he'd been willing to carry it off himself rather than have his Ubu do the heavy lifting. //_Although I'd have expected more of the Ubu to have put in an appearance by now. What on earth are they doing? Nightwing can't have wasted time clobbering so many that only the three Elite Guards remained to fire that rocket.//_ Far, far lower on the list of priorities was Robin's failure to call in his arrival in Metropolis. Batman wasn't too concerned; the boy was obsessively conscientious and had probably simply gone through Oracle rather than himself. He was, however, pleased that his junior partner was out of this mess. The presence of Deathstroke promised a substantial level of impersonal viciousness that, while Batman was certain Robin would never kill anyone now, might nonetheless call to the baser undercurrents the Doctor had instilled in his third squire._ //And permanent maiming is also unacceptable.//_

Nightwing knew better so, unsurprisingly, his concerns were an order of magnitude worse. Nightwing knew what that bundle contained. He had seen his little brother bleed out through a self-inflicted chest wound; a gurgling choking death that he'd not wish on anybody despite the peaceful expression Robin had worn at the end, after the failure of his aborted attempt at resuscitation.

He'd be lying if he claimed that using the Pit to restore his young friend had not occurred to him.

He'd have nightmares for the rest of his life if he ever admitted – even to himself - how quickly he'd dismissed the thought.

A dip in the Pit resulted in madness. A temporary fugue, it was true, but violent psychosis all the same. And while a return to sanity seemed to be complete, when it eventually occurred . . . //_who knows just who – or what – the Pit will resurrect.//_

Grimly, Nightwing realized he was about to find out.

His young brother-in-arms, hale and whole?

The shattered, slowly healing halfling that had characterized his successor over the past few weeks to months?

The assassin, Twenty. Complete, rebuilt, and with fully intact programming?

Were it the last, Nightwing knew, it would take a special brand of lunacy to save everyone else in the building. 'Vingt' was too deadly, too well-trained to be allowed to return to a 'sanity' that would see him bend his knee to Ra's as his Master.//_Though how on earth I'll tell, when any version will strike out in delirium, I don't know.//_

Unspoken, un-thought, but not unfelt, was the soul clenching dismay of what Nightwing's response would have to be to a ruthless assassin hell-bent on destruction, little brother or not. _//If he's as good after resurrection as he was on that rooftop so long ago, one of us at the very least is toast.//_

Then the point was rendered moot as an aftershock of the missile blast sent several tons of brick, steel, concrete and dirt ripping through the sagging, damaged support beams and thundering into the Pit in front of him, destroying it – and all inside it - utterly.

Above him, with Deathstroke's intercession, Ra's disengaged from his battle against the Bat with a particularly savage riposte, one that sent his foe slipping a precious two steps out and away from deadly combination of the Demon's fine Toledo steel and the Terminator's no less elegant knife. Glaring at the now two-on-one odds, Batman readied himself to continue the fight. Deathstroke however, had other ideas, and Ra's was amenable; quick as thought the pair leapt away in a configuration that would have enabled Batman to chase either of them . . . at the cost of leaving himself easy prey for the other.

Remarkably, instead of heading upwards and out, the Demon's Head darted down, towards the pit, obviously intent on reclaiming the bundle he'd been carrying when the fracas had commenced. Irritation in every line of his body, Deathstroke followed his employer's lead. //_Something more important than a quick, clean getaway? When he knows he's dealing with me?//_ Batman's mouth tightened into a grim line. Whatever it was down there, he suspected the world was substantially better off if the Demon never got near it. Thought matched deed, and an instant later he too was off the rafters, scaling down the still-shaking and unstable debris with ease.

It took the Demon a full few seconds to assess the destruction of yet another of his Pits (an all too frequent occurrence of late), and the loss of his prize corpse. Having lived for an eternity already, and battled both the Bat and others similar to him a multitude of times, he knew that now would be a time where discretion would eminently outshine it's counterpart of valor, tooth-grindingly frustrating though the proposition was. The Pit could be recreated. The loss of the corpse and with it all potential research into the sole surviving example of the Doctor's work was a much more substantial blow. The assassin Twenty had, in his hale and whole entirety, represented total freedom from the League of Assassins for any activity Ra's chose to engage in. In death, his corpse held the promise of recreation.

A dunk in the Pit was out of the question; while it restored life, the Pit typically played merry havoc with hypnotic programming, and Ra's had little idea of how the Doctor's programming had worked – it was very possible the Pit would mangle certain aspects of it and while resurrecting the assassin as a sociopath who would kill without compunction wouldn't be a bad outcome, the controlled, slavishly loyal lethality of the Twenty series held vastly more appeal. Programming aside, the liberation of insanity had been known to render a number of his other 'pets' uncontrollable in the past, and Ra's had no intention of resurrecting an impeccably trained killing machine with a mad-on against the world when the only targets presenting themselves were himself, another assassin, and two Bats.

Even dead, though, the unit's secrets might have been plundered; a clone or recreation possible if the body was stored rapidly in the appropriate preservatives. Now that option too was gone.

He lacked the time to howl his rage. The roof was coming down. Slowly, a decaying slide now that the larger portion of the weight had already crashed into the pit below, but coming down nonetheless. And one of his most implacable foes was right behind him, determined to capture and contain him. //_But the Bat doesn't realize it's his third squire down there, crushed under the rubble and detritus.//_

The thought made him smile, a toothy grimace of fanged glee. //_I've lost today, but you, Detective, have lost so much more. And your son, your second squire, shall have the 'joy' of telling you about it, for I will be gone.//_

"Another day, Detective. Another day." The Demon's smirk was audible. Deathstroke, his enhanced mental processes having promptly calculated what his employer's statement meant, had already begun clearing an egress and now Ra's leapt across the rubble to join him. Batman looked ready to resume his pursuit, but was brought up short by the leering man's final retort.

"I suggest you go and rescue your children."

_//Child . . . ren? Plural?//_ The sudden burst of terror suffused him, though it didn't stop him from whirling on his heels, beating a rapid track towards Nightwing, who was tearing rubble away from what left of the Pit with gloved hands, desperately digging. _//Nightwing and . . . who else is down there?//_

As Oracle's voice chimed through on his commlink, informing him that she'd send Batgirl to intercept the villainous getaway and asking if he'd heard from Robin yet as she hadn't, Batman felt a sinking feeling that he knew.

Nightwing's anguished cries for his little brother confirmed it.

_//Oh, dear God! Robin!//_

NOTE: Well, I had actually planned on finishing this particular installment of Twentyverse with this chapter, but it'll have to be next time as this is too good a rest-point to miss. Sorry guys. Please C+C anyway, ne?


	11. Chapter 11

The Broken Glass Eulogy

Chapter XI

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed herein do not belong to me. They are the brainchildren of various individuals, all coming under the collective umbrella of DC comics. Some of the peripheral characters mentioned in passing do belong to me, but, realistically, if you've read this far, you know exactly who is whom.

Batman wasted no time demanding explanations or insisting on answers. Detective that he was, the vast majority of them were either blatantly obvious to him, or readily becoming so.

A glance at Nightwing's controlled panic and it was simple for Batman to deduce that his squire, the third to hold that role, was currently buried under several tons of twisted metal and concrete, the shattered fragments of which seemed to loom menacingly through the clouds of dust kicked up by the building's collapse. The boy's presence explained the relative paucity of Ubu guards very neatly; while he and Nightwing had snuck past a large number, his junior partner had obviously felt it faster to go through the opposition rather than around. That was unsurprising; if he'd arrived after the alarm was already raised then there would have been no point to stealth. //And he's an excellent combatant.//

The debris currently burying him wasn't necessarily a problem. The boy had, Batman knew, been in worse situations and knew well how to use the relative shelter of spars and struts and support beams to provide at least a modicum of protection in those instances; even while they were in the process of collapsing the angle and vector of their fall could be estimated and a safe-site chosen. //Assuming he was physically able to move himself under something that could provide such a shield.//

The rapidly spreading pool of Lazarus Pit fluid - rendered more or less inert now that it was no longer centered over, and concentrated on, the magnetic fluxes that had imbued it with its remarkable healing properties – now that was substantially more of a problem. //He's at risk of drowning before we get to him, if the level rises anymore.// Grimly, Batman ignored the thought of what he'd do if his live squire had fallen into the Pit while it was still active. He ignored the seemingly out-of-proportion distress emanating from his adoptive son. //Nightwing's acting like Robin's dead, not just buried.// Grimly, determinedly, and perhaps a little desperately, he opted not to look too closely at the ideas that that little thought raised. He'd seen nothing to believe Robin was not in the best of health, and only Nightwing's cries implied the younger boy was in fact in attendance.

Plus there was that other, not-insignificant issue.

Namely, it had been a rocket, specifically a surface-to-air missile, that had started the whole building-collapse in the first place. He had seen the three Ubu guards who'd done the launching, and he couldn't reconcile their cool collectedness and efficient professionalism with the enormous margin by which they'd missed what seemed to be their intended target, himself. Assuming, of course, that he had in fact been what they'd been aiming for. The more he contemplated it, the less likely it seemed. //The Ubu – particularly those who accompany their master out of the desert and across the oceans - are slavishly loyal, well-trained professionals. Which begs the question of what threat, exactly, did they identify and aim at?//

An instant later, he had his answer.

//The Young Justice vehicle??!// Grimly, he recalled Nightwing telling him how it had found Robin at Wayne Manor a number of weeks ago and whisked him off for some hours before taking him – apparently unharmed – to a Young Justice team meeting. After a surreptitious scan of the Boy Wonder had shown both no injuries and no obvious tracking devices (other than his own), and with no way of proving the boy hadn't summoned it himself, Batman had uneasily left it at that: asking J'onn Jonnz to do a mental scan for tracers on such a traumatized and brutalized mind as Robin now owned would be an exercise in utter agony for both the Martian telepath and his human subject for what had seemed, at the time, to be minimal yield. Now, though, as he realized the Supercycle had obviously turned up for a reason apparent only to itself but doubtless facilitated by such a device, he questioned the wisdom of his decision.

This One had been unshaken by the debris and destruction. Truly, it was not a new phenomenon and in This One's existence it had encountered many such situations, though typically on a more . . . planetary scale. This one was somewhat gratified to see the two humans begin digging; obviously The Rider's friends, unidentifiable before, had now declared themselves. They would help him retrieve The Rider's corpse. They would know how he'd prefer memorial.

Then, This One was shaken to the very core as a sensitive sensor array detected a third life, flickering and sputtering, nearly extinct, that shuddered some twenty meters under densely packed materiel.

The speed with which This One hurtled towards that spark of life put previous efforts to shame. Phasing with reckless abandon even as medical attachments were readied and scanning continued, This One was determined. A second chance had been granted, and lost. This was the third. In the cosmic balance, there could be no more.

The Rider was alive. Resurrected, weak, and badly injured. But that tiny spark of existence, the one thing that the Supercycle could not create, no matter how well he could nurture and fan it, was there.

There. Limbs twisted into positions that could only be described as excruciating, and a batarang still protruding from between bandages hastily applied in a tattered attempt at first aid. But the worst was vacant eyes, staring into the depths of oblivion, while behind them a pulverized mind took yet another beating as Lazarus insanity surged against weak and tattered remnants of psychological programming that were propped up by the physical changes the Doctor had initiated to stabilize them. Adding intermittent spikes of agony - doing more harm than the good they had been placed for - were the splays of healing, both the clumsily-started boy's own, the subtle supercycle touches, and the even more subtle leftovers of some other power. The object, wound insidiously through the boy's mind and internalized into his very being, that had both stabilized him and hamstrung his healing – for better or worse – was gone. This, This One knew, was not a new thing. The relic had been removed before The Rider had attempted another disastrous rescue attempt, taken by the being whose power had called it her own, and whose mind-voice had labeled it a 'Hagoromo'. This One did not miss it now.

Without the relic's power interfering, The Rider's mind and excruciatingly slow healing efforts were unsupported.

Without the relic's power interfering, what spontaneous healing did take place was not necessarily directed towards the best outcome for The Rider.

But without the relic's power interfering, This One could heal The Rider of the Apokolips- and New Genesis-derived aspects of the Doctor's meddling with ease and simplicity. With the power provided by some sort of primitive regeneration pit – one that seemed to send its users temporarily insane, remarkably – This One could heal so much more.

Provided it could extract The Rider from his living burial.

Surprisingly, it was easier than This One had anticipated; The Rider, though twisted and buried, was still fully cocooned in the liquid that had filled the regeneration pit. Which, provided This One Could get to him before his new life force was snuffed out by drowning, would help substantially.

As would This One's ability to generate both the additive chemicals and energy fluxes that could take this restorative fluid from 'primitive and flawed, with potentially adverse long-term consequences' to 'medicinally advanced healing aid.'

An instant later, and the Cycle had phased around Robin and solidified. An instant after that and both the debris and the interfering body armor This One had by necessity phased in with his passenger had been expelled. Dimly audible above were shouts from The Rider's friends as the displacement of mass made the pile unstable. It seemed the shorter of the two was filling in his caped mentor, and a distant, radio-linked colleague, on the details of what had happened as they dug. After the tremors induced by phasing settled, the conversation rapidly turned to the acquisition of superpowered digging assistance.

That was fine with This One. The Rider was now naked, cocooned in what had been the passenger bay of This One's previous morphology. Now it was a rounded medi-bath, the fragile body within suspended in thick viscous liquid and coated with tubes and sensors and supportive medical devices that looked like some kind of bizarre body jewelry, but with a function much more crucial than mere adornment.

They were keeping the human's body alive, while in his head, the Supercycle directed all possible finesse to healing his mind.

The energy cost was enormous, and This One hoped that the other humans above would indeed send for a meta. This One would not be digging itself – themselves - out anytime soon. The work the cycle was undertaking was excruciatingly delicate, and to stop now to phase their way out would condemn the mind fragments, many raging against each other, to certain extinction.

Within that mind, a battered Unit Twenty fought against an equally battered Van. Without an overriding order from its master, the purest of the Twenty programming was directionless and inefficient. Unsurprising, really, as the Doctor had planned it so; he had wanted a vicious and inventive killer, but also one that could not be activated without his command. So the control programming, already damaged and deformed, flamed and battled incoherently.

Van wasn't doing much better; a new, fledging personality, it already had remarkable strength. But some of that strength came from the very elements of itself that waged so desperate a war of secession now.

Quietly, gently, the cycle gathered the other fragments, the portion that had, so long ago, been the essence of Tim Drake, Robin, secreted away in a tiny pocket of mind. Without the Hagoromo's light masking everything with its protection, the shards were easy to find. With the liberation of death and insanity, their incompleteness was apparent. It would be impossible to totally restore The Rider to the self he had been prior to his kidnapping.

But that, decided the cycle, was not necessarily a bad thing. To try and restore him fully would be to steal over a year of memories. Of pain and hurt, yes, but of hope and friendship as well. It would take his mental command of his body back to merely excellent, whereas now his combat skills – and the mind that could comfortably utilize them – was transcendent, and not all of those skills came from sheer experience. There would be enough of the original, however, in both the completely preserved fractions and the modified pieces of twenty, to ensure his intellect was in no way diminished.

The Cycle was a vehicle, but a battle vehicle none the less. To remove a warrior's ability was anathema to its own programming.

To remove the slavish control of a warrior was not.

Systematically, the Cycle stripped away Unit Twenty's command protocols. All of them, laid bare now without the Hagoromo to confuse the issue or the fledging personality of Van to accidentally try and save them in defense of its own healing.

In doing so, This One discovered a rare treasure, one that could be a two edged blade indeed. The cycle would have destroyed the find if it had shattered the protocols, broken down the walls erected by them with the anger it felt at The Rider's imprisonment and torture. But This One had learned; The Doctor was a wily adversary, and to break such walls could well do more harm than good. So dismantlement was in order instead, piecemeal removal of the blocks that were solid and unnervingly obvious – foreign within the mind - without shadow of a doubt and much more poorly integrated than This One had initially detected. The cycle wondered if, once again, this had been the work of the Hagoromo: Initially allow the blocks to stand, to promote survival of the entire organism, but subvert them, and subtly misdirect all examination of them such that they seemed utterly integrated when in reality, all it would take would be a little meddling of the highest order of finesse. . . Perhaps by the owner of the Hagoromo, at her leisure . . . But perhaps this was merely the outcome of partial healing by the regenerative Pit. It was a crude device after all, nowhere near the standard seen in New Genesis.

Behind one such wall was a large cache of memory. The Doctor's erasure seemed now to have been one of removal of access, of the forging of new neurological pathways and laying of false recollections and deep seated protocols. It had not been successful in destroying what lay at the end of the old paths, despite every effort, but merely the paths themselves. Gently the Cycle dissected out more gems of memory, of ability.

The mind was now as unstable as the Gotham Superbowl building above it. Gaping holes in its infrastructure, the fragmentation of self, rendered the mind quiescent, at least. At last all the pieces were free. A shining, glimmering collection of fragments, a giant jigsaw puzzle more complicated than any the world had ever seen.

Grimly, the cycle began matching the pieces together, trimming out the scraps of pit-induced insanity where it was possible, using them to support the other fragments where it was not. The insanity was a tool, one to integrate the mind, but the cycle used the pieced gingerly, placed in such a way that they would by necessity be expelled when the mind was complete. This One knew it would have to begin looking for a new Rider after this. The work it was doing required so much meticulous care, so much trust by the fragments that at some level the Rider would always trust that This One was doing the right thing. That would be a blunting of the Rider's ability for totally independent situational assessment that would not withstand a long time in the field. And This One was determined to get the Rider back into action. He – and to a lesser extent his world – deserved no less. Perhaps the small white-skinned one, he of the spiky black hair, called Li'l Lobo would require This One's help… He at least would be easy to track on this planet of mammals.

Under the cycle's auspices, the puzzle-mind grew, piece by agonizing piece.

It took mere minutes for Batman to decide to activate the special signal that he had used only twice before. Seconds after that, a familiar presence cloaked in red made his appearance. A brief, terse conversation, and Superman was tunneling down through the mound of rubble, massive hands alternately digging away debris as heat-shooting eyes melted and stabilized the tunnel walls.

He would not have been called had Batman been certain his protégé was both dead, and staying that way. But that naked hope in his and Nightwing's voices, carefully controlled and invisible to all who did not know them well, had been unbearable. There was too much collateral noise in the shifting rubble for Superman to be certain of hearing a human heartbeat, and too much lead (The Demon's Head was nothing if not paranoid) peppering the debris for him to see clearly.

So he came, and he dug, and he hoped Lois had the good sense to stay away from super-villains and the edges of tall buildings for at least the minutes it would take him to clear the debris. He thought of the Daily Planet, and of Luthor, and of anything but the possibility of finding his best friend's protégé reduced to a corpse.

Despite Batman's terse, complete briefing, he had not expected to encounter the supercycle so quickly. It was almost as though the machine had been summoning him, directing his digging with faint residues of power. Something to investigate later, perhaps. For now, the tattered shreds of costume outside the cycle and its conformational change told him all he needed to know to formulate his plan; extract the cycle, and break open the shell. Corpse or alive, the current heir to the Robin role was inside.

An instant later, as two uninvited metas made their appearance, it seemed as though all hell would break loose.

It did not, in fact, do so. Whether anticlimactic or not, common sense and long-standing teamwork-based familiarity prevailed when the tall woman in silver-blue armor and her shorter, red-dressed partner arrived.

Summoned by the distress flair of New Genesis technology, it was second nature for the happily married residents of a small white picket fence house in a very staid North American suburb – who were, purely incidentally, former inhabitants of Apokalips – to investigate that signal. Where previously an instruction from Granny Goodness or Darkseid himself would have almost certainly been for capture or destruction of the signal source (Supercycles were a rare breed, and while often uncontrollable by Apokalips standards, if they could be captured and 'broken' they were a formidable ally.) now, with independence, came a different perspective.

Superman, hands poised to peel open the shell of metal around where his hearing told him a human heart still beat, was stopped by a firm, feminine touch on his arm and a single word.

"Don't," Barda said simply, pulling his arm away. "The cycle is in its healing mode, and if you interfere now you may well kill whoever is inside."

Grateful for the insight, Superman subsided. Behind him, with rigid self-control nearly overridden by frustrated anguish, Batman ground out a single query;

"How long does 'healing mode' last?"

"Variable. The mode is directed by the site and extent of injury, and modified by any latent healing abilities of the subject's own." She allowed the last part of her sentence to rise slightly in a questioning manner. Batman chose to ignore it.

"Mental trauma? Neuroprogramming?"

"Difficult to say. A lot of it can be . . . removed, at least the cruder elements. However this is a combat search-and-rescue cycle, not a dedicated medical search cycle." Barda twitched slightly, recalling a number of times she herself had required the services of a similar device. But, truly, Scott had been the best healer of her mind, and the reason she'd broken her own controls was due to their love. That the remaining jagged edges of her programming had been smoothed by such a machine was almost incidental; the major healing was something she'd done herself. Say rather, that they'd done together. Whoever was inside doubtless had a different story and, from the way Batman was acting, it seemed likely a purely human background. Who could say, then, what a cycle would be able to do?

The answer came sooner than expected.

The jigsaw puzzle was complete – or as nearly so as This One would ever be able to get. Weakening, This One shifted focus towards the physical wounds. The lacerated heart and lung were easily fixed after the Batarang was removed, as was the fractured sternum and two ribs. For completeness' sake, the cycle siphoned a very, very little of The Rider's own energy for one final healing. The scars: Down the back, the marks of the peripheral programming and upgrading that the cycle had perforce left intact; the grisly souvenir of Robin's obedience to his protocols and Superboy's rescue of him from them engraved on his temple; jagged lines of pain and torture on wrists and ankles, all of them had caused The Rider anguish in their graphically visual reminder of pain, of failure and of agony. He would not miss them, and he would never need such macabre reminders.

When, and only when, The Rider's skin was as smooth as it had ever been, when even the scars gained as 'Robin' before his turn as 'Twenty' had been removed, did This One consider it's task complete.

This One was glad those outside the healing cocoon were friends; the Rider was weak, would remain so for some hours. He would need protection that This One was also too weakened now to provide.

For his part, Batman had debated fiercely – if only internally – whether or not to have Clark shift the cycle to the Batcave. Big Barda seemed to feel that as the cycle was, by definition, a mobile unit, it would be unlikely that moving it further would cause any particular deleterious effects, but still Batman found himself hesitating. A glance at his ex-partner recognized complete agreement; not only was allowing the cycle full 'knowledge' of where the cave was somewhat fraught, there was also the main issue at stake. Namely who - or what - the never before encountered combination of Lazarus Pit regeneration and New Genesisian supercycle medical science would resurrect.

The minutes passed in terse silence until, with a faint hiss, the side of the supercycle's converted medi-pod cracked open. A wash of fluid spilled out, cresting on the wave of it was the smallish, lithe figure of a human boy.

Slowly, shakily, he clambered to his feet, as unsteady as a newborn colt. Around him, two sets of muscles unconsciously tensed, awaiting a sentence, an action. Something that would make the answer to the burning question that wracked the batfamily. What was resurrected? Lazarus insanity? Unit twenty? Perhaps even Robin?

The boy looked up, blinking rapidly, trying to focus. Unmasked blue eyes, clear and summery, took in the world around them with lively intelligence before settling finally on the usually-menacing figure of the Batman. A faint grin twisted lips hesitantly, the muscles used for smiling long since fallen into disuse.

"Bru- Batman?" tentative and half-frightened, the boy looked to his mentor for reassurance. Nightwing let out a breath he hadn't quite realized he'd been holding as in front of him his little brother raised a shaky hand to his head, raking long tendrils of black hair away from his face with the unconscious gesture of habit.

The hand stopped suddenly as the blue eyes abruptly widened. Long fingers, slim and deft, probed the forehead they belonged to, running across the fragile temporal bones frantically.

"No . . .scar?" The boy pulled his arms in front of his eyes, inspected his pristine wrists, forearms, legs. "No scars at all?! Batman, what . . .? How …?" Unable to bear the boy's obvious distress, Barda stepped forward. Whoever this child was they'd rescued, it seemed that the Batman wasn't planning to alleviate his upset anytime soon. Quietly, she pulled off her cape, draped it over his shoulders.

"You're fine. You're safe now. What's your name, little one?"

"I. . . Tim. My name is Tim." He smiled with that, a sudden brilliant gift of sheer joy that lit up his eyes and seemed to transform his childlike face from handsome to transcendent. Nightwing had an instant to bask in the illumination of that smile, the utter, heartfelt delight of it. //It's going to be okay. It really is going to be okay!//

Then Tim Drake, Robin III, leader of Young Justice, Partner of the Batman, victor of any number of metahuman conflicts and survivor of many more, did the only thing that seemed sensible given the situation.

He fainted dead away.

Batman was there to catch him, to wrap his own cloak around the boy and hold him close.

Batman needs a Robin, Tim had told him so many years ago. As recent months could attest, he was very, very right, but the statement was not complete; Batman did need a Robin. But did he deserve one? There, in the ruins of the Gotham superbowl stadium, Bruce decided it was well past time he started earning one.

End.

Please C+C. Puh-leeeze! Look at it this way; you guys C+C-ed, and in response to comments I wrote this as one chapter (a mammoth one, but still only one) instead of splitting it into two. See? Not only does it make me post, but sometimes I even change stuff because of it.

And you're right. It's not really 'The End", but end of this fic. I'm well aware I've yet to  
a) detail what happened to Kaguya and the Shishou  
b) expand on why Huntress is as ready to gut Robin as she is to look at him  
c) get Tim reunited with his father and step-mother.

d) manage a little Batfamily bonding

But that's okay. The next twenty-verse fic, tentatively (very tentatively) titled 'Aftermath' will deal with that.


End file.
